Avoiding Scars
by alizarincrims0n
Summary: "The bathroom is dappled with moonlight, damp stone echoing the sound of harsh breathing, and the air permeated with the scent of fear and arousal — an arousal so strong that Draco is nearly knocked to the ground by the force of it. He takes another step, and Potter is still there waiting for him — waiting for Draco to touch him… to smell him… and to taste him." 6th Year AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi everybody! Whether you're a new reader or here after Temptation on the Warfront, then welcome and I hope you enjoy the story! It's based on a popular fan theory, set in 6th year, and will most likely be around novella-length.**

 **Warnings for: underage/mutual sex between two sixteen year olds, swearing and dark themes.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing, all goes to the amazing inspiration of J.K Rowling!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 1: Smells and Suspicions**

"You're staring at Malfoy again, mate."

Harry blinks, quickly trying to pretend it was his porridge he'd been so fascinated by. But Hermione's lifted brow tells him he isn't fooling anybody.

Harry sighs, frowns, and tries to ignore the sound of Ron Weasley stuffing half a sausage into his mouth.

"I just have a feeling he's up to something," Harry mutters, chasing the steaming oats around in his bowl with a spoon.

"Harry," Hermione begins, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. She manages to cram a whole sentence of disapproval into a single word, and Harry cringes, because it's too early for being lectured, and he woke up with a headache. "You really should spend this year focusing on your studies. Besides, I think it's a little unfair of you to draw attention to Malfoy when he seems as though he's just trying to mind his own business."

"Yeah, which makes me know he's up to something. You saw him snooping around in Knockturn Alley, 'Mione, remember?"

"Maybe he was Christmas shopping," Ron offers, pouring himself more pumpkin juice.

"Ron's right, Harry. Leave Malfoy alone, or you'll start something you won't know how to finish."

Ron stifles his grin behind his goblet, no doubt glad to have Hermione say he's right about something, seeing as it doesn't happen often. "Yeah, not to mention, if you keep staring he'll start staring back." Ron shivers somewhat, implying that being on the receiving end of Draco Malfoy's grey-eyed glare is one of the most disgusting things that could ever happen.

Strangely, Harry doesn't agree. Because if Malfoy stared back then Harry thinks he would at least be able to discern a fraction of whatever it is the Slytherin is hiding from the depth of his scowl. But Malfoy doesn't stare at him, in fact, he doesn't even look at Harry — hasn't so much as glanced at him for the first two months of the new school year. And Harry wouldn't hate it nearly as much if he didn't find it so bloody bizarre. Malfoy is meant to glare at him and insult him — it's what rivals do — it's what they've always done.

But now that he practically ignores Harry's existence, Harry feels almost… disappointed. And suspicious. Because Malfoy is up to something — something slimy and hateful, most likely, and Harry will spend as long as he has to on figuring out what. Even if that means he'll be doing it alone.

Harry sighs again, for probably the tenth time this morning, and concludes his friends are just as eager to believe Malfoy's innocent as Harry is to believe him guilty.

Grudgingly, Harry drops it and goes back to his breakfast. The Christmas holidays are a month away, and Harry finds himself not wanting to return to the Burrow with Ron and Hermione. Because going to the Burrow will mean being cooped up in close quarters with Ginny, whose forwardness in recent months has done more than frighten Harry off. Last year's ordeal with Cho Chang was bad enough, and if Harry's honest with himself he really doesn't feel up to romance this year, what with the weight of his Godfather's death still plaguing him with nightmares.

He pushes away his bowl, grimacing at the horrid sound of the metal spoon clanging against the ceramic, and then after a few seconds of internal struggle, he goes back to the only thing that seems to be able to distract him from his own problems these days.

Staring at Malfoy.

* * *

Draco doesn't even bother reading his mother's letter before he scrunches it into a ball and incinerates it with a flick of his wand. The spell leaves a small black scorch mark on the wood of the table, and it makes Draco feel a little better.

But then he remembers what the letter would have said, what every one of his mother's letters have said so far, and he goes back to glaring at his uneaten toast.

Suddenly, Draco bristles, the fine hairs on his forearms and on the back of his neck standing on end, and he just knows that Potter is staring at him. Again.

If it were any number of months ago, Draco wouldn't have minded, in fact he would have relished in the narrowed green gaze of the boy who he has been trying to get the attention of for five years. But not now. Because now Draco can feel every inch of Potter's stare — can feel it burning up the length of his body and awakening urges which he can't control anymore.

And Draco has to struggle with every inch of his being not to look up — not to look into the pair of eyes he dreams about. Because if he does he'll fall apart, and then Potter will know. Potter will find out that Draco is a — a freak.

Draco abruptly rushes to his feet, his teeth clenched so hard they hurt, and strides out of the Great Hall. His fellow Slytherins pretend he was never there to begin with, and even Pansy Parkinson keeps her eyes trained away from the son of a failure. Draco doesn't care — he doesn't need any of them — and he didn't go against his mother's wishes and insist on returning to school this year just so he could talk to his 'friends.'

Draco doesn't get further than ten steps into the entrance hall before he freezes. Without turning around, he knows Potter is behind him. Draco can smell him.

Potter smells like sleep and honey, and Draco's eyelids flutter closed as he inhales, unconsciously balling his hands into fists.

"Malfoy." Potter says it as though he has the element of surprise, as though he is expecting Draco to jump out of his skin at the mere mentioning of his name, at being sneaked up on. For a brief moment, Draco entertains the thought of doing so, just to see Potter react, but that would involve opening his eyes and looking at Potter.

And Draco can't do that.

"What do you want, Potter?" Draco asks levelly, hoping to make his voice sound as indifferent as possible. He probably fails, because he'd do anything to know what Potter really wants, and whether or not Potter wants the same things as Draco. The thought causes his mouth to go dry, and Draco's nails dig into his palms.

There's the sound of shoes scuffing across the stone floor, and Draco can imagine that Potter's frowning.

"You didn't eat breakfast," Potter's tone implies that not eating breakfast is one of the most sinister things one can do, and Draco lets out a sigh as he continues walking again.

"Wait, Malfoy —"

And then for some stupid, unfathomable reason, Potter tries to grab his shoulder, and it sends searing jolts of want down Draco's spine. Draco shrugs wildly out of Potter's grip at the same time he swivels around, his teeth bared as he spits, "don't fucking touch me!"

And it is perhaps the biggest mistake he has ever made.

Because Harry Potter is standing in a state of bewilderment, and evidently he has no idea what to do with Draco's sudden rage. His eyes are wide, framed by dark lashes and thick brows drawn in confusion. But the worst part of Potter's shock is the way his lips are slightly parted, and the way Draco nearly trembles with the desire to taste them.

Because Harry Potter looks just as good as Draco remembers, and seeing him for the first time in months, seeing him so close, nearly overwhelms Draco with need and hate and revulsion.

Draco growls, stumbling back, because he has to get away — he has to hide before every wall he has built around himself comes crumbling down — he has to run before Potter finds him out — before Potter becomes disgusted.

Draco doesn't look back as he hastens up the stairs. His hands are shaking, and his shoulder tingles where Potter touched him for that split second, and no matter how hard he tries he can't rid his mind of the image of Potter's pink lips, can't stop thinking about what they might feel like against his own.

* * *

Harry doesn't know why he followed Malfoy out of the Great Hall. He doesn't know why he tried to stop him from leaving either — why he attempted to grab his shoulder and through the thick wool of Malfoy's school jumper felt the unnatural heat radiating off of his skin beneath.

Maybe Malfoy's sick, Harry thinks, because no one can be that hot and still walk and talk. Malfoy didn't look fevered, however, but Harry knows the git's talented at hiding things. Still, Harry has always been under the impression that Draco Malfoy would feel cool to the touch, icy, just like everything else about him, even his eyes.

His eyes hadn't been cold a few minutes ago, though — they were burning metal, as though Malfoy hoped to incinerate Harry with nothing but the heaviness of his hate.

Harry shakes his head, hopefully clearing it of errant stray thoughts about snarky Slytherins and their suspicious eating habits — maybe that's why Malfoy didn't finish his breakfast, because he has some weird new disease where his body temperature's hot to the point where he can't eat?

Harry cards a hand through his hair, realising trying not to think about Malfoy results with him thinking about Malfoy anyway. Maybe he really should take Hermione's advice, and throw himself into his studies face-first until there's no way out.

With one last questioning glance towards the stairs where Malfoy's lean and harried form disappeared, Harry turns and walks back into the Great Hall.

* * *

Draco slams the door to his dormitory closed, thankful that everyone's still down at breakfast, and leans his head back against it, trying to catch his breath.

He's achingly hard, his erection straining against his trousers, and he still can't stop thinking about Potter's fucking lips, and about how they might feel around his cock.

Draco groans, sliding his palm over his crotch. He can feel everything now. Every fibre of fabric rubbing against his thighs, and the scratchy cotton of his shirt grazing his nipples. He swears he can even feel the blood pounding and rushing through his cock.

His mouth waters at the thought of how Potter's mouth might feel — hot and wet, with every bud of his tongue chaffing deliciously along the underside of Draco's erection. Before he knows what he's doing, he's unbuttoning his trousers and shoving a hand into his boxers, hissing at the sensation of his sweaty palm sliding against his leaking shaft.

He swipes the pad of his thumb over the slit, letting his head fall further back as he pants, imagining Potter's hands, Potter's unruly black hair as he swallows around Draco's cock, Potter moaning and loving every inch of it —

Draco gasps, losing himself while fucking the tight circle of his fist and spilling warm stickiness all over his fingers. He cleans himself up with a few flicks of his wand, and surreptitiously straightens his tie.

He pledged to himself that he would stop wanking over Potter last year, after the bastard got Draco's father locked up in Azkaban, but then things had turned to shit, and now it's as though Draco's even more ruled by his hormones than he used to be.

And that's why Draco has to try even harder not to look at Potter, not to think about Potter, and not to be anywhere near Potter. Because he doesn't know who it'll be more dangerous for, himself, or for the boy Draco started fantasising about ever since seeing the strong slope of his shoulders enunciated by dress robes at the Yule Ball.

Doing up his trousers, he vows to himself that this will be the last time. Because Draco knows that insufferable prats such as The Chosen One don't go after people like him, and Draco has spent more than long enough trying to convince himself that this is something he has known even before what happened in the Summer.

* * *

"Harry — you've got honey all over your jumper."

Hermione's exaggerating, because the honey isn't all over Harry's jumper, just slightly spilled down the front, which is what happens when one wakes up with a headache and can't even pour honey on one's porridge properly.

Hermione titters at him and waves her wand deftly at his clothing from across the table.

"Thanks," Harry mutters, settling down beside Ron. He's glad the first thing she pointed out was the honey, and not the fact that he'd run off to unsuccessfully follow Malfoy.

"Double potions first. Kill me, Harry," Ron moans, staring morosely at what is probably his fifth sausage.

"S'not all bad, now that Snape's off our backs," Harry says, just as uninterested in his porridge as he was before.

"You mean now that you've found a way to cheat," Hermione says reproachfully from over the top of her Ancient Runes textbook.

Harry shrugs, ignoring her remark and Ron's smirk, and sends a wordless thankyou to the battered old potion's book in his school bag, which has made getting close to Slughorn, as Dumbledore had asked of him, that much easier.

Yet, as the three of them make their way down to the dungeons for their first lesson, Harry's thoughts aren't consumed by the possible identity of the 'Half-Blood Prince' as they used to be, but are circling endlessly around the sudden puzzle of Draco Malfoy.

Unsurprisingly, and thanks to Ron and Hermione's deafening bickering about Ron's eating habits after exiting the Great Hall, they arrive late. Slughorn doesn't seem to mind, even though the majority of the class are already in their seats, and simply smiles broadly at Harry's entrance. Harry supposes anyone who turns up to class alongside him, even if they were an hour late, would be spared the docking of house points.

Harry's eyes drift immediately to the back of the room, searching for a shock of white-blond hair, but Malfoy isn't here, and Harry frowns, noticing that Crabbe, Goyle and Parkinson haven't even saved Malfoy a seat.

Harry lowers himself into the seat next to Hermione, and is in the process of taking out the Prince's book when the door creaks open and Malfoy slinks into the room. Slughorn barely notices him, in fact, he doesn't even acknowledge Draco's presence apart from a casual glance from the corner of his eye before he simply continues telling them enthusiastically about the Draught of Living Death.

Harry supposes having one parent locked up in Azkaban is a sure way to avoid being recruited into the Slug club, and wonders whether he should feel pity or envy for Malfoy. Either way, Lucius deserved it, and Harry doesn't regret the man's misfortune, because if it weren't for him then maybe Sirius —

Harry's hands tighten into fists and he mentally shakes himself, deciding that listening intently to Slughorn is better than letting his mind wander off into territory which makes Harry want to tear his own eyes out in order to escape the pain. The only thing which is capable of occupying a large enough space in Harry's head to distract him from wanting to shout or scream is the curiosity presented by Malfoy, who has just taken a seat at the front of the class without so much as looking in the direction of his fellow Slytherins.

Harry doesn't know how he's missed it, the fact that Malfoy seems to have no one, not even his cronies, by his side this year. He admits that's probably because he's been too busy watching Malfoy with nothing but suspicion to take in the actions of the people around him.

A nudge to his ribs pulls his attention away from the sharp lines of Malfoy's profile, and with a murmured grumble of pain he turns to Hermione. "What?"

"Weren't you listening? We have to pair up — and I've already promised Ron I'd help him this lesson."

"Oh — right," Harry thinks Hermione's decision has more to do with not wanting to cheat and less to do with wanting to help the person she's just spent the last half hour berating for eating a whole platter of sausages, but he doesn't comment on it. "No problem."

Harry turns to catch Neville's eye, but he's already paired up with Dean, whose usual partner of Seamus didn't get out of bed this morning due to his decision to come down with an awfully well-timed cold.

Harry's gaze lands on Malfoy, his long pale fingers already setting up his cauldron on the bench solely occupied by himself. Harry doesn't think twice, even though he knows he's signing himself up for either two hours of barbed insults or two hours of deathly silence, and after grabbing his book and quill from his desk, he heads over to join Malfoy.

Malfoy's hands turn to stone as Harry comes to a stop in front of him on the other side of the bench, and Harry watches eagerly as steely grey eyes slowly rise and settle glacially somewhere on Harry's right shoulder. Figuring Malfoy's probably gone back to the whole 'not looking at him' thing, Harry merely shrugs and thumps his bag down on the stone floor.

"Can I help you, Potter?" Malfoy asks acidly.

"Yeah, actually you can. You stir, I'll chop?"

Malfoy's lips thin and his nostrils flare, which is weird, Harry thinks, but then he catches sight of the stern glare which is still determinedly trained on his torso, and Harry huffs with annoyance.

"Fuck off, Potter," Malfoy snaps before Harry can say anything, quiet enough not to be heard by anyone, but with enough venom that if Harry weren't known for his perseverance, he probably would fuck off.

"We're the only people in the room without partners. I don't like it just as much as you do, Malfoy, so just shut up and deal with it." Harry is a little shocked to see that Malfoy does shut up, however the angle of his jaw hardens, and his knuckles tighten around the stirring rod.

After a few seconds more of frigid silence, Malfoy turns soundlessly and disappears into the store cupboard to collect their ingredients, which Harry smugly takes for reluctant consent. Harry flips to the correct page of his potion's book, even though Malfoy already has his opened on the table, and starts to read over the Prince's notes.

* * *

Draco used to like Potions. He'd begun to love it after returning to school this year, because the harsh smell of the ingredients and the thick stench of the potions hide the sort of smells that make Draco's nose burn. Such as the abundance of perfume which girls slather over their necks, and the foul musk which tells Draco who's been fucking who, not to mention the most prevalent odours of sweat, lingering food, and magic. The magic smell isn't so bad, but Draco could really go without the information of who had what for breakfast.

But now — now with Potter standing so close to him that every now and then the sleeves of their robes brush, all Draco can smell is him. And it's driving him insane. Potter still carries a faint trace of honey, something a little spicy like spearmint toothpaste, and then a hint of something gloriously masculine which is purely Potter.

It's making concentrating nearly impossible, and Draco has to close his eyes and breathe deeply to stage off the erection that mercilessly keeps trying to resurface beneath the table. When he opens them, it is to see that Potter isn't following the instructions.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Draco seethes, "You're meant to cut that, not crush it!"

Potter shrugs. "But it's working. See." And he's right, Draco acknowledges with a scowl. Potter has successfully squeezed most of the juice out of their Sopophorous beans, leaving thirteen shrivelled bean carcasses strewn across the bench.

Draco's eyes narrow. "We're only supposed to put twelve beans in, not thirteen, you ignoramus."

"If you're so concerned by it then you should have done it. Instead of just standing there like a blind and deaf tosser." Potter says it callously, and Draco is about to growl before he catches the scent of Potter's mirth. It's subdued beneath the suffocating potion fumes around the room, but it's still coming from Potter, and that's why Draco is so tuned into it.

Draco's irritation ebbs into suspicion, wondering what could be so funny that Potter's having a secret laugh. He looks quickly at his textbook, checking to make sure he's read the directions correctly. And he has, because it says in clear, printed script to cut twelve beans. Not crush thirteen.

Draco chances a glance at Potter, sees his tanned, calloused hands and the sturdy shape of his wrists and stops himself before his gaze can creep higher. And then he notices the Potions book Potter has set out on his side of the bench, far enough from Draco that if Potter angles his body in the right way it's hidden from Draco's view.

Potter's arm moves back slightly as he finishes crushing the last bean, giving Draco a side-long view of a weathered and stained page, with tiny inked in handwriting crammed into the margins.

"What's that?" Draco asks at once, making a gesture towards the book.

"What's what?" Potter turns to him then, his tone one of feigned innocence as he tries to inconspicuously shove the book behind his back. Draco's honed senses don't miss the action — his eyesight locks onto it at once, and then he makes a sudden dart forwards, intent on ripping the book from Potter's grip.

Potter is almost as quick as Draco, and backs up against the side of the bench at the same time Draco lunges forward, resulting in a near tangle of arms and legs, and a suddenly intense stare-off between grey and green. All at once Draco becomes aware that he is too close — dangerously close, with his thigh against Potter's and his fist twisted into the front of his robes.

Potter doesn't look angry, only surprised, and — and curious. The mix of emotions coming off him smell so interesting that for a delirious second Draco almost leans in to brush his nose against Potter's jaw, but then he realises what he's doing and recoils with the speed one uses to avoid being hexed.

No one else in the room seems to be paying any attention to the altercation that almost took place, all too absorbed in the difficulty of their potions. Even Slughorn is caught up in trying to make sure the protrusion of his belly doesn't knock over the cauldron of the pair he's trying to help.

From the other side of the bench, at least a metre away from Potter, Draco still isn't safe. Especially because he can feel Potter's eyes digging into the side of his face, and he has to simultaneously fight the urge to scream at him to never so much as look at Draco again, and the urge grab him and throw him up against the bench and ravish him.

Draco purposefully inhales the potion fumes to attempt to ease his mind away from Potter, and then begins to stir the brew anti-clockwise.

But then there's a hand on his elbow, and Potter is right up in his personal space again, and Draco just wants to curse.

"Er—" Potter's hand drops, and Draco glares down into the pale lilac of the potion, teeth gritted firmly together. "Stir once more when you're done — but clockwise this time."

Draco won't glare at him — he won't — and he won't give in and treat himself to one last gulp of Potter's scent either — he won't — and he most certainly won't escape to the nearest bathroom as soon as he can and break the vow he made to himself not one hour ago. He won't.

Draco glares at him.

Potter stares defiantly back, one dark brow lifted slightly, and Draco just wants to smash his stupid round glasses and never look at him again. He also never wants to look away.

Draco looks away.

He stuffs his books and parchment hastily back into his bag, and then departs in a flourish of black robes.

He makes sure to slam the dungeon door behind him, and doesn't stop to think that maybe he's going about this the wrong way. That maybe if he looks at Potter — if he looks and looks and looks, then he'll never want to look again, then he'll get the sight and the smell of Potter out of his head for good.

He doesn't stop to think about this until after he's sealed himself away inside one of the toilet cubicles, cast several muffled silencing charms, and jerked himself off roughly to the vivid and intoxicating mental image of fucking Harry Potter into the potion's bench.

* * *

"Where's Mr. Malfoy gotten to then, Harry?"

Harry looks up from frowning down at the Marauder's Map beneath the bench, and into the face of Slughorn, who is beaming down at the clear coloured brew of their Draught of Living Death.

Harry's about to tell Slughorn that Malfoy's unwell with a stomachache, hence him running off to the bathroom — according to the map, but Slughorn doesn't look as though he cares for an answer, because he's too busy congratulating Harry for what he doesn't know the Prince helped him accomplish.

Harry just smiles halfheartedly, not really listening to Slughorn's compliments, because he can't stop thinking about Malfoy's glazed eyes, and the fevered flush to his normally alabaster cheeks, thinking that the Slytherin must be very sick after all.

Harry doesn't let himself wonder whether his suspicion has turned into worry, all he knows is that he is more determined than ever to uncover whatever it is that Draco Malfoy is trying to hide.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2: Of Ideas and Bothersome things**

Over the next few days, Harry notices that Malfoy doesn't eat much of anything at all. In fact, he spends most of his time during meals with his head bent over a spread of homework, steadfastly ignoring the withering scowls of whoever happens to sit next to him. But despite the treatment from his housemates, and the fact he only seems to pick at his food, Malfoy still manages to maintain an aura of untouchability. And it pisses Harry off.

Malfoy should be bothered by being shunned by other Slytherins, because from what Harry remembers of the last five years of their schooling together, Malfoy has always pranced around as though he wears a crown — as some sort of self-appointed Queen of Slytherin. Yes, Queen, Harry thinks, not King, because no King can have such delicately haughty features and such an irritating love for gossip — not that Harry sees Malfoy doing much gossip lately.

But Malfoy isn't bothered — or, at least he doesn't act bothered. And this bothers Harry, because he doesn't feel like he should have to feel bothered by the way people treat Malfoy, or by the way Malfoy isn't bothered.

Harry stabs rather fiercely at his steak, listening half-heartedly as Ron talks animatedly about the upcoming Quidditch Game this weekend. It's the first game of the year, and the teams have only just finished tryouts. Harry has sort of been hoping to hear whether Malfoy's made Seeker this year, and whether Slytherin's desire to win transcends their apparent distaste for their ex-monarch — because Malfoy, Harry reluctantly admits, is a pretty decent Seeker, especially when Harry gets to beat him. Unfortunately, all he knows is that Ron's nervous, and Ginny reckons Hufflepuff's Chaser, Zacharias Smith needs to get the broom stick out of his arse before he attempts to fly on it.

This weekend's match will be Gryffindor against Slytherin, and while Harry hasn't practiced as much as he'd like to, he is more eager than anxious. Because there's something extraordinarily breath-taking about racing Malfoy against the strength of the wind in order to ensure his fingers curl around the Golden Snitch first.

Harry has tried cornering Malfoy twice in the corridors between classes, wanting to ask him whether he made the team, which is stupid, Harry supposes, because either way he'll find out soon enough. But both times Malfoy fled at the sight of him, turning in a swirl of white and black and disappearing around a corner.

Harry also had the bright idea of partnering himself up with Malfoy in potions again, so he could glean more clues from his impeccably composed pointy face up close, but as soon as Slughorn so much as mentioned the word 'partner,' Malfoy hastily settled himself alongside an unsuspecting Hufflepuff, too scared to voice their discomfort at partnering with someone whose scowl could send a whole room to their knees.

Harry thinks he's immune to that scowl, though, even though he was on the receiving end of it next lesson when Malfoy dumped his cauldron down next to poor Neville, who looked over at Harry with a wide-eyed plea, and shook a little along the shoulders. Harry grimaced at him, frowned at Malfoy until the blond's scowl faltered, and then turned to set up with Ron, who hadn't managed to bribe Hermione into helping him a second time.

Somehow, Harry has become grimly determined to get Malfoy to notice him, and he thinks that since the person he's trying to ensnare is a Slytherin, he might just have to employ some of his own Slytherin characteristics into getting what he wants.

He casts another glance towards the Slytherin table, only to see that, surprisingly, Malfoy is actually eating. With quite some enthusiasm. Harry glares down at his own plate, wondering what Malfoy's steak has that his doesn't, and then mentally shrugs, because at least Malfoy is eating something, which should mean the sickening pallor that clings with red crescents beneath Malfoy's eyes should start to fade.

Harry doesn't stop to ask himself why he cares so much.

* * *

Draco is determined not to notice Potter. Well, he'll always notice Potter, he thinks, but he's determined for Potter not to notice Draco noticing him.

Draco does up the last button of his shirt, wondering what he'll have to do today to avoid being chased down by The Chosen One. He frowns at himself in the bathroom mirror, inspecting the bags beneath his eyes that have darkened since yesterday. As the days draw closer, he becomes tireder, hungrier, and hornier.

And he hates himself. Because there is nothing he can do to stop it.

Draco shrugs away from the mirror with a snarl and strides back into the dorm. His tie isn't where he left it, hanging over the back of his desk chair, and it makes him grit his teeth, because he feels like he has been through this so many times before, and it's getting bloody boring.

"Anyone seen my tie?" He snaps.

Zabini lifts his head nonchalantly from the letter he's writing and gives Draco such a bland look that Draco huffs. He smells like whiskey and sex, and Draco resists the urge to scrunch his nose.

Crabbe and Goyle have predictably already gone down to breakfast, as they always do to grab themselves prime seats for stealing toast from First Years, so Draco turns to Nott, who doesn't look up from a magazine emblazoned with the cover of a scantily clad Witch.

"Why the fuck would I have seen your tie, Malfoy?" Nott says, with just enough nastiness laced into his surname for Draco to roll his eyes.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe for the same reason you've seen it for the mornings of the past two weeks."

Nott lets out a short laugh, the kind that's more of a derisive snort and a rise of the chest than anything resembling humour. Draco knows this because he's done the same thing, many times, just not recently.

Nott finally lowers the magazine and sits a little straighter on his bed, his blue eyes alight with something smug as he looks at Draco. "Maybe you should pay more attention to the things you love, Malfoy. That way they won't get taken from you."

And Draco just snaps. The threadbare strings of his temper have been pulled too taught, and in the next second he's right in front of Nott, his fist curled into his dorm mate's jumper as he hauls him violently to his feet, hissing, "don't you fucking dare play games with me, Nott."

The mirth drains out of Nott's lanky frame, and the mousy curls of his hair hang in his eyes as it is replaced by indignant rage at being manhandled. "Get off me!" Flecks of his spit land on Draco's cheeks, and Draco jerks him roughly by the collar until Nott's hands come up to shove him just far enough away to land an upper-cut to Draco's jaw.

Draco doesn't waste a moment before he hits back, his knuckles crunching into bone and flesh. Nott swears as blood drips from his nose, and the coppery tang of it invades Draco's nostrils and drives him to attack once more, to make sure Nott knows to never again insinuate something about Draco's father.

Nott staggers back, his hand wiping blood and spit from his face, and his eyes are pure death as he glowers at Draco, "you're gonna regret that, Malfoy." It sounds more like a gurgle, and Draco doesn't even bother scoffing.

He stretches the ache out of his fingers a few times, and pops out a crick in his neck. He feels dull pain blooming along his own jaw, but he hardly notices it. Turning, he sees Zabini eyeing him with amusement.

Draco ignores them both as he takes a deep breath, searching for traces of his own scent. Apart from it being prominent in his own part of the room, it drifts slightly from the direction of Nott's four poster. Draco takes two steps, reaches down to swipe his tie out from under Nott's bed, and then walks out of the room.

* * *

"Whoah, who d'you reckon got a piece of Malfoy's face?" Ron muses.

Harry tries not to appear too eager at the sound of Malfoy's name, and looks up. There's a purpling bruise at the corner of Malfoy's jaw, but the way the Slytherin saunters into the Great Hall with his bag slung over one shoulder says that he doesn't care at all. He does't even seem to take any notice of people's stares, and drops himself into a seat at the very end of the Slytherin table.

Harry wonders why Malfoy doesn't just cast a healing charm on himself, and doesn't realise he's spoken aloud until Ron snorts.

"Git probably likes the attention. Probably thinks it makes him look all 'rugged.'" Ron gives Hermione a wry look. "Girls like that, apparently. If the covers of 'Mione's muggle romance novels are anything to go by."

He sounds somewhat sulky, and Harry wonders whether Ron has spent time worrying over whether he looks 'rugged' enough. Hermione's cheeks tinge with pink, and she ignores Ron for the rest of breakfast.

Harry is glad to be rid of them as he excuses himself for the bathroom and goes to stand in a shadowy alcove in the entrance hall. He knows Malfoy always leaves well before class starts, no doubt to avoid the swarming masses of students, and if his lack of appetite is anything to go by then Harry thinks that should be soon.

He doesn't have to wait long, and before five minutes are up, he sees Malfoy's lithe and pale-haired figure moving past his hiding spot. Harry swears that Malfoy comes to a stop, as though he's expecting this very set-up, but Harry doesn't let himself think about it, because then he's darting out and snagging Malfoy by the arm, shoving him into the alcove and up against the wall.

There's hardly any light where they stand, but Harry is certain he sees what can only be described as a burning within the wide blaze of Malfoy's eyes. It takes him too long to realise Malfoy's trembling, and Harry takes a step back, putting distance between them, suddenly concerned that Malfoy might have more bruises unseen, and Harry's just made his injuries worse.

But then Malfoy speaks, and his voice is low and thick and strangled. "Are you fucking stupid, Potter?"

It's a funny question to ask, irrelevant almost, and Harry narrows his eyes, because he's the one who's supposed to be asking the questions here. "Who did that to you? To your face?"

It takes Malfoy's breath to catch for Harry to notice he's been panting. But if Malfoy's surprised he hides it well, seething, "why the fuck do you care?"

"I —" Harry is stumped. Because he doesn't know why he cares. He just does. "I just do." He sees the whites of Malfoy's eyes, as though they're rolling, and before the blond can slither away Harry blurts, "are you playing on Saturday?"

There's a pause that's too long, and then, "you think I'd pass up a chance to beat you? You must be stupid, Potter."

Before Harry can reply, Malfoy's gone, and, standing alone in the alcove, he tries to put a name to the sudden lightness in his stomach, excited by the knowledge that even though Malfoy might have some weird sort of illness, Harry will still get to fly with him through the Quidditch stands.

He frowns, trying to analyse the word 'with,' because he'll be playing with his teammates — against Malfoy. Harry puts the strange word down to the fact that sometimes, when their teams verse eachother, and Harry is circling the pitch and studying the vast sky for a trace of gold while Malfoy does the same, it feels as though it is just the two of them.

* * *

Draco only has ten minutes before class begins — and fuck, he can't do this again — he just can't. He promised himself he wouldn't — but he's so hard, so raw with want — and Potter just had to go and do something so incredibly stupid, not to mention dangerous, like luring Draco into a dark and shrouded alcove and then pressing him against the wall.

Draco had smelt him, that delicious Pottery smell Potter doesn't even know he carries, right before he'd been assaulted, and god he didn't even mind, because it was like something from one of Draco's fantasies come to life — only fantasy-Potter didn't lean away from him and ask him if he would be playing Quidditch. Fantasy-Potter usually did things like strip and show Draco the glorious expanse of his bare chest, like unbuttoning Draco's trousers and getting on his knees and —

Draco bangs his head against the wall. The corridor's empty, and now he only has five minutes to get himself together and forget everything about Potter, such as his lack of knowledge about the limits to Draco's self control, and his apparent desire to be mauled by someone rabid and horny.

Draco curses, gnashing his teeth on his tongue, because the thought of mauling Potter is not helping.

Footsteps and voices suddenly ring from the other end of the corridor, and Draco takes a deep breath as the stuffy smell of sweat and bodies makes its way towards him in the form of Theodore Nott, flanked on either side by Crabbe and Goyle.

Draco tugs a little on his robes, hoping the traces of his arousal are hidden, and gives the group a surveying look of indifference. Nott's managed to heal his nose, and Crabbe and Goyle look just as fat and stupid as they usually do. Draco doesn't miss them at all, especially when Nott vigorously digs his elbow into Draco's gut in passing, and they both do nothing but snigger.

"Didn't see you there, Malfoy."

"Are you fucking twelve, Nott?" Draco snaps, not because the gesture caused him pain — he's made of stronger stuff than that — but because this is actually getting pathetic, and he's starting to think that maybe Nott is twelve.

Nott pauses and swivels on his heel, his lips twisted and ready to throw back a lame response, but he's interrupted by the appearance of the Golden Trio rounding the corner. Upon seeing Draco, Potter stops abruptly, and Weasley bumps into his back and grumbles. Granger manages to keep her footing, and looks disapprovingly between all four Slytherins as though they've set up camp in the middle of the hallway on purpose.

Draco would say something snide to her, but he's all too aware of Potter's eyes trying to catch his own, and he thinks getting out of here is a better idea — even though History of Magic is about to start, a class which they all share.

Nott seems to have lost his courage in the face of the Gryffindors, and with a sneer he barges his way past them and into the classroom.

Draco follows him without a word, not wanting to be continuously studied by Potter and his bloody sidekicks, and slumps into a seat at the back of the room.

* * *

"You reckon maybe it was Nott?" Harry asks quietly.

Ron gives him a small shrug. "Who punched Malfoy in the mug? Dunno. Good on him if it was."

Harry sighs, falling behind his friends as they walk into class. He's not prepared for an hour of Professor Binns's droning voice, and he knows he's going to spend the majority of the lesson either trying to stay awake or staring at Malfoy.

To his strange disappointment, however, upon stepping into the room, he sees that Malfoy's taken a seat at the back, which means Harry won't be able to stare at him without breaking his neck. He frowns, trying to figure out why that's a problem, when it should be a good thing. He needs to concentrate on his studies, after all, just like Hermione said.

Harry resigns himself to a boring lesson and slides scribbled notes about Quidditch tactics back and forth across the table with Ron. Hermione purses her lips and presses her quill rather furiously to her parchment, and Harry just knows they're both going to get lectured for it later.

Luckily, it'll be a lot later, because Harry has Quidditch practice before dinner, and a meeting with Dumbledore after dinner. He manages to spare a semblance of pity for Ron, who he'll have to leave to fend for himself against Hermione's wrath while Harry goes to see the Headmaster. He thinks tonight he'll tell Dumbledore about Malfoy, about how Harry thinks the Slytherin is looking more harrowed by the day.

Dumbledore's bound to listen more than Ron and Hermione have, in fact Harry's starting to think he sees his best friends cringe whenever he brings up Malfoy, and vows to himself to stop talking about him. He won't say anything more about the snarky blond until after Harry's found out what he's up to.

"Why d'you think Nott has it in for Malfoy?"

Harry manages to cringe before Hermione, mentally swearing to himself, and Ron gives him a sour yet suspicious look.

"Why don't you just ask him, Harry?" Hermione says waspishly as she gathers her books to her chest.

Harry doesn't bother telling her that he already has asked Malfoy — with a very negative, if not non-existent result — but he hasn't asked Nott yet. Maybe he should do that.

They have Defence Against the Dark Arts next, but for some reason Malfoy breaks away from the rest of the class and heads down the opposite corridor. Harry frowns after him, and quickly mutters something about leaving his books behind in the classroom before slipping away from his friends.

He tries to listen for the harsh tapping of Malfoy's polished shoes against the stone floor, but can hardly hear anything. He's hesitant to turn around the corner, in case Malfoy's waiting for him on the other side with his wand pointed, or worse, his fist.

But then, with a stroke of luck, Harry remembers his invisibility cloak, and how he's had it stuffed in the bottom of his bag since he first became suspicious about Malfoy's nefarious deeds, and with a sly grin he pulls it out and throws it over himself.

As it turns out, Malfoy isn't around the corner at all, but as Harry takes several more steps he begins to catch the carried sound of low voices.

"—don't need your help!" The hiss is undeniably Malfoy's, and Harry flattens himself against the wall, edging as close as he can.

"I know you were unable to seek help in Knockturn Alley, Draco." Harry's eyes widen at the deep and hollow voice of Severus Snape. The new Defence teacher's voice is tainted with something unfamiliar, however, something almost urgent.

"So? Why the fuck do you even care?" Malfoy asks in a lethal whisper. "Why do you even want to help me? Why don't you just tell everyone!? Just like you told them about him all those years ago."

There is a pause, and Harry can almost hear the sound of Malfoy's angry exhales.

"I made the Unbreakable Vow," Snape replies evenly. "I promised your —"

"What's the fucking point? We're finished. My father made sure of that."

There's the sound of robes swooshing, and then measured footfalls which head towards where Harry tries to become one with the wall. It's Malfoy, and his snow-like hair is dishevelled, hanging too long into the tiredness of his eyes. His gait is sure, but his shoulders seem stiff, and suddenly he stops, a metre away from Harry.

Harry holds his breath, desperately hoping the cloak doesn't do something inopportune like slip, and stares dumbly at the frozen blond in front of him. Maybe Malfoy's forgotten something, maybe he's deliberating whether or not he should turn around and say something more to Snape.

But then Malfoy's eyes, cold and grey like stone, land right where Harry is but isn't — because he's invisible dammit, and there's no way Malfoy is able to see through invisibility cloaks. Harry almost misses the way Malfoy's nostrils twitch and the way his lips part, because he's too busy studying the bags beneath his eyes, and the sharpness to his cheekbones.

Malfoy seems to shake himself, and his eyelids flutter shut for a short moment before he continues walking.

Harry goes somewhat limp against the wall, wondering what he would have done if Malfoy'd actually found him out, before he allows the things he overheard to swirl into questions inside his head.

One thing he knows for sure is there is definitely something wrong with Draco Malfoy, and Snape knows what it is.

* * *

Draco strides into the Defence class room, glad that Snape hasn't arrived yet — he's probably too busy lurking in corridors — the fucking nosy sod. Being intercepted on the way to the bathroom had been terribly bad luck, because spending the hour of History of Magic staring at the tanned skin on the nape of Potter's neck and watching his infuriating interactions with Weasley had been self-inflicted torture, which called for a hasty departure to the bathroom.

What's worse, Potter's scent seems to be following him, and it's making Draco crazy with lust and hunger, not to mention rage. Because he needs to get over Harry fucking Potter — and he needs to not think about the words 'Potter' and 'fucking' in the same sentence.

Potter isn't in the classroom, even though his pathetic little friends are, which makes an alarm bell go off in a distant corner of Draco's mind. But then the Boy Wonder himself attempts to make an inconspicuous entrance into the room, notices the lack-of-Snape, and practically tumbles into the seat between Granger and Weasley. His hair is an inky mess, sticking up in every direction, as though he just pulled a jumper or something over his head and got it stuck.

Draco averts his eyes when he realises what he's doing and glares at his desk. Snape arrives a moment later, and after greeting them with the usual threats and promises of detention, begins to lapse into a dull lecture of counter-hex theory.

Draco resists the urge to sigh, because he'd been hoping to do practical, not for reasons involving the way Potter's chest would puff and preen with the chance at proving his mild adeptness for a class that isn't Potions in front of this particular teacher. And not for reasons involving the way Potter's wrist moves when he cast spells and deflects hexes, and most definitely not for the chance of being teamed up with Potter himself for a duel. Because they are all things Draco doesn't want to witness, not at all, because if he does then he won't be able to get them out of his head for the rest of the day.

Draco is doing quite well not thinking about any of this, in fact, and paying most of his attention to what Snape's saying, even though his eyes are still trained on his desk, when he begins to feel the familiar tingle of Potter's gaze. It burns the side of Draco's cheek, and makes his stomach flood with an intoxicating heat.

He risks the smallest of side-long glances, and there he is, chin resting in hand, and emerald green eyes focused on Draco. Upon seeing Draco stare back, Potter blinks, looks away, and then seems to think 'what the hell' because then his gaze is back, just as searching and intense as before.

Draco mentally curses to himself and turns back to the marked and indented surface of his desk. Only one more day, and then things will dwindle back into the normal, things will start anew. For a while.

* * *

"You're what!?"

The common room fire is warm and crackling, making Ron's face appear redder than it should be.

Harry looks around, making sure there's no one listening in. Most people have gone to bed already, Hermione included, but Harry figures Ron will end up telling her anyway.

"I said, I'm going to try and get Malfoy to be my friend."

"I heard you, mate. But why? That's fucking mental."

"It's the only way I can figure out what he's up to," Harry's thought about it a lot, and it has nothing to do with the serene blueness of Dumbledore's twinkling gaze after he'd listened to Harry's suspicions and said, 'ah, perhaps all Mr. Malfoy really needs is a friend, Harry.'

Because it's not as if Harry wants to be Malfoy's friend. He's just doing it because he has to, because if he doesn't something sinister might happen.

"Yeah, but what makes you think the git's gonna open up to you? S'not like his other friends are having much luck," Ron says, his mouth twisted at one side as though the idea of Malfoy having friends at all is other-worldly.

Harry looks at the orange and yellow hues of the fire, refusing to admit that the situation with the other Slytherin's treatment in regards to Malfoy makes him feel more pity than curiosity. "That's why it might work. He doesn't have anyone else."

Ron gives Harry the kind of look one gives a mouldy piece of bread one finds at the back of the refrigerator and then scowls. "Still don't get why it matters," he mutters.

Harry doesn't get why it matters either, he just has a feeling that it does. Very much so.

"Look, it'll only be for a little while, until I find out what's wrong with him and what he's planning."

Something livens up a little in Ron's eyes and he snorts. "I s'pose… can you imagine the look on his pointy face when he finds out he was out-Slytherined — that it was all a joke? That will be hilarious."

Harry nods and gives a half-hearted laugh, wondering why he doesn't seem to find that thought hilarious at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter 3: Warnings and Fancies_**

 _Draco,_

 _I am begging you to take heed of this letter before it's too late. Please, think about what you're doing, my Son. If you come home we can find help elsewhere, it isn't safe for you there. If your father knew, he too would agree —_

Draco scrunches the parchment into a ball and presses his knuckles to his forehead. His whole body feels hot and sweaty and it aches. And waking to the insistent tapping of his mother's eagle owl at the window did nothing to ease his frayed nerves.

Goyle's snoring from his four poster, Crabbe is a definable lump in his own bed, and Draco swears he can detect two sets of breathing from behind Zabini's curtains. Nott is a different story, and his bed is made and empty.

It's only just past six in the morning, and Draco can't imagine where Nott would be which would call for his bed to be made. It's a Saturday, and breakfast starts in two hours — Draco scowls, because he doesn't give a fuck about Nott, and there are more important things to be worrying about, such as the Quidditch game today.

Montague had no qualms with keeping Draco on the team, not when a sufficient sum of bribery was involved, taken from the very vault of the man who they deemed a failure and thus not to be associated with. Besides, there was no way Draco was going to give up Quidditch, not when he can practically smell people's intentions and see the Snitch from a mile off.

Oh, yes. He isn't going to let Potter win. Not today, and hopefully not ever.

Even though today is possibly the worst day on which the match could have been scheduled, and Draco is almost considering doing something which will cause the whole game to be postponed. But then Potter's face flashes behind his eyes, and in his mind he hears the almost breathless quality to Potter's voice when he asked, "are you playing on Saturday?"

Draco sighs, figuring if he can't stop one problem, he might as well try and help the other.

* * *

Harry jolts awake, scrabbling for his glasses and uncomfortably aware that his boxers are warm and sticky. He groans as remnants of his dream chase eachother around in his head — the false memories of deft fingers and a hot, wet mouth around his cock.

Harry takes a moment to think about all the girls in his year, and whether any of them match the foggy images in his brain. None of them fit — and neither was it Ginny, who Harry has tried to convince hundreds of times that what he feels for her is purely platonic, and nor was it Cho, because what happened with Cho was just horrible and Harry never wants to repeat it.

He settles on it being a nameless nobody, one of those faceless people only dreams can construct, someone who he is both thankful for and annoyed at. Drawing his wand from beneath his pillow, Harry's fingers brush against the edges of the Marauder's Map, which he decides to pull out as well. He murmurs a muffled cleaning charm on himself before opening the parchment across his lap.

He knows most students will still be in bed, because it's goddamn early and not everyone wakes up at the crack of dawn due to wet dreams, but he still feels like running the grainy parchment beneath his fingertips and tracking the lines of ink with his eyes.

The corridors are dead, not even a whisper of a pair of footsteps, and Harry relaxes a little more into his pillows until his gaze falls on the restricted section of the library, and sees Draco Malfoy slowly pacing down one of the aisles.

Harry sits bolt upright, the map falling further open on his lap as he frowns down at it, heart racing. Harry launches himself out of bed before he can even question himself, drags on a pair of jeans and grabs his wand. He takes one last look at the map, ensuring he hasn't been imagining it, and barely registers a second dot labelled 'Theodore Nott' travelling down a seventh floor corridor.

Harry doesn't give a damn about Nott, because Malfoy is alone in the library, and now is the perfect time for Harry to corner him and weasel some information out of him — or at least try and find out what kind of book the bastard's looking for. If Harry knows anything about Draco Malfoy, it will most likely be something full of dark and sinister humour — like 'how to disintegrate your Aunt's lungs and make her choke on their ashes' or something. Strangely, Harry doesn't feel very sympathetic towards the Aunt in question if that's what Malfoy's after.

He creeps out of his dorm after barely tying the laces on his shoes properly, and practically flies down hallways and staircases until he arrives at the Library.

Harry, rather cleverly, he thinks, puts a silencing spell on the door, in case it makes a horrendously loud noise and sends Malfoy running, and locks it for good measure after closing it behind him. Feeling slightly breathless after his hasty journey, and proud of his anti-Malfoy-escape plan, Harry gingerly makes his way towards the restricted section.

The air is so quiet and still that for a second Harry fears that Malfoy might have left in the time it took him to get here from Gryffindor Tower, and he curses himself for not thinking to bring down the Map.

But then he rounds the corner, and stops short at the same time Draco Malfoy drops a book on the floor. It's abrupt, loud, and just so fucking _un-Malfoy_ that Harry fears he may be goggling.

There's no time for goggling, however, because in the next second Malfoy is staring straight at Harry, his eyes wide and dark and strangely lived — and shit, Harry realises he's forgotten his invisibility cloak.

"What are you doing, Malfoy?" Harry hopes his voice sounds more confident than he feels. It's not that he's worried for his safety — he could take on Malfoy in a cinch, he knows — it's just that there's something slightly uncomfortable about the way Malfoy's gaze is digging into him. His pale, chiselled jaw is hardened too, as though he's attempting to bite down on a million insults he'd like to throw right in Harry's face. Harry wishes he'd just open his mouth and get it over with, because the whole staring thing is starting to get fucking weird.

Harry frowns and clears his throat, about to ask once more, but then Malfoy's walking towards him, his obsessively polished shoes making not one sound, and his shoulders squared in a way that's almost _predatory._

Harry _almost_ backs up, but then he remembers who he is, and why he came down here in the first place, and he does nothing but set his feet a little firmer on the ground, and flex his fingers around his wand.

Harry holds his ground, but Malfoy looks completely unfazed, stalking forwards with something like delirious intent spread across his face, and it pisses Harry off to the point where he sends a mild stinging hex at Malfoy's knee.

The spell hasn't so much as left his wand before Malfoy is right in front of him, and Harry's arm is clenched in such a tight grip that his first instinct is to struggle. But Malfoy jerks his arm, shoves him against the shelf with a bang, and Harry growls and hisses, "what the fuck are you —"

"I heard you the first time," Malfoy's voice is almost a whisper — a pained, half-whine sort of whisper, and it's right _there_ , right by Harry's throat, and Harry's whole body goes still because he swears he feels Malfoy's lips graze his skin.

He daren't move, because doing so might put him at risk of Malfoy's mouth a second time, and part of Harry is too shocked to even think about moving.

He swallows, his eyes caught on the opposite shelf of books. There's some strands of white-blond hair in his vision, and the unnatural warmth of the body not even an inch away from his is making him feel overheated and claustrophobic and _confused_.

And then he hears Malfoy take a deep breath, hears him inhale against his neck, and Harry does the only thing he can think of to get Malfoy away from him — he hits him.

It's not a punch, it's more of a shove, but it works, because Malfoy grunts and takes a step back, and then realisation begins to dawn within the dilation of his pupils. Shock, anger, disgust — they all flit through the black which Harry swears used to be grey. And then Malfoy's gone.

Harry lets out a rush of breath, blinking away the bizarreness of the encounter which left him bewildered, and admittedly somewhat flustered, in the Hogwarts Library.

Harry stands there for a few long minutes doing absolutely nothing but trying to determine the intentions behind Malfoy's actions, before he remembers the book Malfoy dropped in his moment of uncharacteristic clumsiness.

Harry bends to pick it up, and after brushing away a coat of dust from the cover, reads the title, _'Dangerous Beasts and how to Tame Them.'_

He has no way of telling which page Malfoy had been perusing, or if he even managed to open the book to begin with, but nonetheless Harry is left with an increased sense of suspicion. Perhaps Malfoy has taken up one of Hagrid's hobbies, and has secured himself some sort of monstrous pet — but that can't be possible, because there's no where he'd be able to keep it hidden in the castle — unless he's dumped it out in the Forbidden Forest.

Harry glares down at the book, thinking even if that were so, it still wouldn't explain Malfoy's sickly hue, or the way his body temperature seems a decimal point away from combustion. Maybe the beast is slowly sucking the life out of him?

Something doesn't sit right with Harry at the idea, and strangely he thinks it has less to do with a dangerous monster and more to do with Malfoy's health.

Harry angrily shoves the book back onto the shelf, mentally berating himself, because whatever's happening to Malfoy, no doubt it's the bastard's own fucking fault.

It's also Malfoy's fault for making Harry think about him.

* * *

 _Fucking Potter._ What the fuck was he thinking — seeking Draco out while smelling like — like _that._ Fuck. Draco is insane — he must be, or else this is all just some god-awful joke.

It's not a joke, though. Because in a matter of hours there'll be a Quidditch game, and Draco knows he'll win, and he'll feel good about it until the sky darkens and he'll have to _run_.

He swallows, walks a little faster, but his head's still spinning, and clinging to his senses is the fresh scent of Harry Potter's come — and it's heady and intoxicating and so bloody dangerous that Draco is certain if he'd stayed a moment later in the library he would have been completely fucked.

Or, rather, _Potter_ would have been fucked. Quite literally. By Draco.

Draco grits his teeth, trying desperately to put several filthy images out of his mind, and then hurries down towards the kitchens. There's no way he's going to submit himself to an hour of watching Potter put things in his mouth, even if those things are just pieces of toast, not when Draco has a very good idea of what Potter's been doing this morning.

Draco stops short, almost colliding into a frightened-looking first year, who has the ill-fate of rising early and crossing paths with Draco in the corridor. Draco snarls at her, earning himself a squeak before the stupid girl scuttles off. He doesn't give a shit about first years, not when he's just realised what Potter _might have been doing this morning_. With someone else. Another person. Not alone.

There are a few prolonged, irrational seconds where Draco is nearly overcome with sheer rage and something he won't let be fucking jealousy, before he remembers he hadn't been able to smell another person on Potter — it was just Potter. Pure, musky, and no doubt delicious Potter.

Draco's shoulders relax somewhat, and he spares a moment to smirk at the nonexistent person who'd come so close to having their limbs torn off one by one.

And then he continues on his way, slightly cheered.

* * *

Hermione's stare during breakfast tells Harry Ron didn't waste any time in telling her about their best friend's newfound and idiotic plan.

"What?" Harry asks with a huff, even though he knows exactly what. Maybe he should have just kept quiet.

Hermione thins her lips and tucks a lock of curls behind her ear, shaking her head marginally as if she can't decide whether to draw this out into a lengthy lecture, or just come straight out with her disapproval.

Harry can't decide which he'd prefer, because if it's the lengthy lecture then he can at least pretend to listen while tuning out, but on the other hand, it'll be _lengthy._ However, the other option will result in an argument, or at least Harry having to justify himself, and he can't do that because he too thinks what he's doing is a stupid idea. An idea he's not even going the right way about, if this morning's occurrence is anything to go by. Somehow Harry doesn't think Malfoy will be inclined to be his friend if Harry keeps stalking him and sending hexes at him.

Harry is in the middle of trying to convince himself that what he's doing isn't stalking, not at all, just enthusiastic curiosity and a desperation to stop anything bad from happening, when Hermione says, "I really don't think you should do it, Harry."

Harry takes a bite of his toast, putting off his answer until he nearly chokes over a mouthful and needs to have a gulp of pumpkin juice. "Do what?" He wheezes. Ron slaps Harry on the back — a little too late — at the same time Hermione quirks a brow.

"You know what. There's no way anything good can come out of it, what with the history you two have. One of you is going to end up getting —" Hermione breaks off, suddenly a little awkward.

Harry, whose airways are now free of crumbs, frowns. "End up getting what?" He has a strange feeling that Hermione was going to say the word 'hurt,' which doesn't make any sense at all, because even so, why would that be a problem? It's not as though what Harry has in mind with Malfoy will be like a _real_ friendship, one like what he shares with Ron and Hermione. It's not like that's something he'd even _want_.

But then Harry's mind flits back to last night, remembers what Ron said about how funny it'd be to see Malfoy getting pranked, and how Harry didn't — and _still_ doesn't find it all that amusing. Is that what Hermione means, then? Will _Malfoy_ be the one to get hurt?

"I just don't think it's a good idea," Hermione clarifies, as if this weren't obvious enough already.

Ron, who's busy loading eggs onto his plate, chuckles. "It is a _bit_ barmy, but I'm all for it if it'll give us one up over the lousy sod."

Hermione glares at Ron and then at his plate, before turning back to Harry. "Please, Harry, just give it a little more thought."

"'Mione — it's not going to be some permanent thing, okay. It's more like a — like an investigation."

Hermione doesn't look convinced, nor pleased, in fact it looks like this is the very thing she's wary of. Before she can open her mouth to say something further, Harry gets to his feet and excuses himself, leaving behind a half-eaten piece of toast, and sending a somewhat morose gaze towards the Malfoy-free Slytherin table.

* * *

"Don't botch this one up, Malfoy."

Draco sneers at Montague, not deeming to give him a response as he readjusts his shin guards.

Montague, the giant fucking git, doesn't relent, and makes Draco's throbbing headache ten times worse. "If you lose the snitch to Potter today, you're off the team."

"Get fucked," Draco snarls, standing and grabbing his broom. The rest of the Slytherin team have gathered around them, wearing expressions of blasé interest at their captain's warning. They're a bunch of bloody cowards, the lot of them. Draco can sense their anxiety, and it makes his own more intolerable.

Draco has no intention of losing to Potter, not that Montague or anyone else needs to know that. But he has every intention of relishing in the expression on Potter's face after he admits defeat to his enemy.

Draco smirks to himself as he follows his team out of the change rooms, and —

"Good luck today, Malfoy."

Harry Potter stands stiffly outside the door, looking as though he doesn't know what to do with his arms. His right hand twitches and then curls before he shoves it into his Quidditch robes, while he stares at Draco with something that can only be called defiance.

Draco almost loses control over his smirk — because he should have known Potter would do this — some sort of prattish, patronising ambush. But what with the countless bodies crammed into the stands, and the loud noises of hundreds of voices and Draco's own thoughts, he hadn't been able to smell Potter.

Draco narrows his eyes, refusing to let them wander over the gloriously muscular planes of Potter's clothed body, and tries to determine Potter's intentions. His emerald eyes don't waver from Draco's, and for a moment Draco is almost sure that Potter _means_ it — is actually wishing him luck.

It's strange and surreal, and makes no fucking sense, and Draco can feel his palms start to sweat and his heart start to speed up, because Potter is still looking at him, and Draco remembers a quiet library and the scent of Potter's release and — _fuck_.

Draco chokes over a growl, before turning in a sweep of green robes and striding onto the pitch.

* * *

Harry doesn't get much time to brood over Malfoy's lack of response to his first offer of civility, because soon enough he's in the air. The wind dances through his hair and the Scottish backdrop of towering mountains and never-ending sky surrounds him. And it's perfect.

His gaze skims naturally through the air, looking for a trace of gold, but infuriatingly enough Harry finds his eyes drawn towards the whiteness of Malfoy's hair, which is just as blinding as the bloody sun, and should be illegal to have in a Quidditch game. Harry spares a moment to indulge in the idea of Malfoy having to wear a bag or something over his head whenever he mounts a broom, and snorts at his personal joke.

As soon as his laughter leaves his throat, Malfoy's head snaps towards him, and Harry's heart thuds against his ribs, because that can only mean that Malfoy's seen the Snitch. But Malfoy doesn't move, merely continues to hover thirty metres away with a scowl on his face, directed straight at Harry.

Harry nearly frowns in return, before he reminds himself of his goal, and instead raises his hand in a very awkward wave, which he turns into a scratch of the head at the last second — just incase Malfoy thinks he's a few twigs short of a broomstick.

Although, it shouldn't matter if Malfoy thinks Harry's crazy, in fact, Harry would find the idea quite amusing if he didn't think Malfoy less likely to befriend an insane person — he's already got enough insane people in his family.

Harry pales at the straying of his thoughts, and refocuses his vision just in time to see Malfoy dive towards the ground. Harry grips the handle of his broom tighter, fingertips warming at the flow of his magic, and darts after Malfoy without a thought.

The wind rushes around Harry's shoulders, moulds to the shape of his body and pushes him _faster_ — and there's Malfoy, just a little way away, the pale strands of his hair looking like sunlight. Harry blinks — why the fuck would he think such a thing? He grits his teeth and speeds up, until he'd be able to grab the end of Malfoy's broom if he were to reach out. He doesn't get the chance to reach out, though, because in the next second Malfoy careens to the left, leaving Harry to zoom onwards into a space that is evidently absent of the Golden Snitch.

Harry curses under his breath and takes a sharp turn, flying upwards as soon as his seat is steady enough. There is a very brief moment where he sees the smug line of Malfoy's mouth, turned up at the corner in cunning satisfaction, before Malfoy's line of sight becomes obvious, and Harry realises Malfoy — the bastard — made him chase nothing on purpose, while all along the snitch hovered above them.

Malfoy's arm is outstretched, his long fingers only centimetres away from the shining golden ball, and the dinging sound of Gryffindor scoring is the only thing that reminds Harry to _move_ , and to stop watching his rival.

He speeds forwards, the thrumming feeling of flight blending in with his exhilaration and adrenaline, and then Harry's right alongside Malfoy, the length of his thigh squashed against the blond's as they whoosh past the stands, and his right arm bumping painfully against Malfoy's as they attempt to divert the other's aim.

Harry hears Malfoy make this growling sound, and for a second it makes Harry's grip falter, because it sounds deep and low and somehow _feral,_ as though reverberating from Malfoy's very core. Harry's never heard anything like it before, not from anyone _human,_ and not only is it fucking weird — it sends something uncertain and flighty flitting around Harry's insides.

Harry doesn't get long to dwell on it, because then Malfoy's actually wrapping his hand around Harry's wrist, and before Harry can register what Malfoy's doing — simultaneously flying his broom without holding on and _cheating_ — he's consumed by the burning heat of Malfoy's skin.

Harry swears right before realising he's just lost the game, and then he swears once more, because suddenly he's slipping and falling — and his wrist is so hot, so charred, that there must be a burn there. He doesn't let himself think before grabbing onto Malfoy's sleeve, because if he did, he'd think about how stupid of a move it is. Because then they're both falling, and the next thing Harry knows is the hard impact of the ground and the winding weight of Malfoy on top of him.

All around them is the deafening roar of every onlooker's dissatisfaction, screaming things like _foul_ and _cheat_ and _oh god, Harry._ But those last words sound too close to be part of the crowd, too close — just like Malfoy — and shit, Harry can hardly breathe. His stomach aches and his lungs plead for air, and then Malfoy shifts, digs the heel of his hand into Harry's shoulder so as to lever himself up.

Harry hardly notices that now he can breathe again, because then he feels it — something heavy and hard and jutting into Harry's thigh — something Malfoy doesn't seem like he is trying to hide as the stormy steel of his eyes bore dangerously into Harry's.

Something tells Harry he should be scared, but he isn't — only confused. Because he just lost his first game of Quidditch in what feels like forever, and then he fell off his broom and got squashed by Malfoy — an _aroused_ Malfoy, who looks ferocious and pissed off and as if he couldn't care less about the fluttering Snitch in his palm.

And Harry can only lie there, feeling bruised and battered, wondering when the fuck his life got so messed up.


	4. Chapter 4

_**CHAPTER 4: Questions and maybe some Answers**_

Draco is shaking, his shoulders tight with tension, and his arms are quivering. He's practically vibrating, and if he doesn't do something — doesn't move away from the boy who stares up at him through a wide and perplexed green gaze — then he just knows he's going to explode. And then it'll be the end — the end of Draco, and everyone else around him.

People are starting to come down from the stands, and the rest of their teams are landing — the Gryffindors wearing expressions of concern, while the Slytherins adorn smirks of glee. Draco hardly pays them any attention, because all he knows is the way his body touches Potter's — the way his crotch presses into Potter's thigh. And the way Draco doesn't want to move away.

But he has to. And it's so fucking unfair that he just wants to scream and curse and hide. Because if he wasn't around, if he didn't have to see Potter everyday — see his mussed inky hair and his stupid round glasses — then everything would be _easier._ Then Draco would be able to live through this.

But Draco can't do that. Because he's too much of a stubborn coward to choose what he _should_ do. Because Harry Potter is something his senses can't get enough of — because Harry Potter will be the death of him. And Draco would rather embrace death than have it chase him from afar.

Draco launches himself to his feet. He's unsteady, thrumming with heat and magic and rage. He doesn't listen to the congratulations of his team mates, not only because he doesn't care, but because he can't hear them over the ringing in his own ears.

Draco picks up his fallen broom and leaves. He doesn't let himself look back at Potter, who hasn't moved from the ground. He doesn't give himself that one last pleasure.

* * *

"Oh, seriously Harry — _cheer up_. It's not _that bad_ that you lost to Malfoy." Ginny perches on the edge of Harry's armchair, too close for comfort, and the overwhelming scent of blossoms tickles his nose as her long hair brushes his shoulder.

Harry tries to shuffle an inch to the side while still maintaining his quiet indifference to the conversation going on around him — the Marauder's Map helps. It's spread over his lap, and as his eyes scan lazily over it he tries to tell himself he's _not_ looking for the one person he wants to look for.

"Are you kidding?" Ron says, kicking his feet up onto one of the squashy ottomans. "That's exactly why it's bloody awful."

From the corner of his eye, Harry sees Hermione look up from her textbook and give Ron a scowl. Harry doesn't really care that he lost — well he does, but not as much as he cares about the baffling and shocking fact that Malfoy was apparently _hard,_ while on top of him. Maybe it was just a mistake, maybe all Harry felt was something in Malfoy's pocket. It's an unconvincing thought, and Harry swallows away the sudden dryness in his mouth.

"I've never seen Malfoy fly like that, though," Ginny muses, not helping Harry's unstable thought pattern. "It was like he had one of dad's rocket boosters or something."

Ron makes an unhappy grunting noise and sighs. "Harry could have beaten him. Harry _always_ —"

"Well I didn't this time, okay?" Harry doesn't mean for his voice to come out so snappish, and he clenches his teeth. He lowers his gaze back to the map and feels something like excitement jump in his stomach when he catches sight of a pair of black footsteps labelled, 'Draco Malfoy,' but before he can register just _where_ Malfoy's loitering, Ginny snatches the map from his lap.

"Staring at that all afternoon isn't going to make you feel any better," she tells him, and Harry has to fight the urge to childishly grab it back.

"I'm fine, alright? I just —"

"How about you take a walk with me, Harry?"

If it were last year, Harry would have said yes in a heartbeat, because hanging out with Ginny was like having a sister, but now Harry suspects her intentions aren't all that innocent, and quite frankly he's not interested.

"Er — sorry Ginny, I'm a bit tired." It sounds like a lie, even to Harry, and Ron, who's been watching with a downcast expression, just has to go and open his mouth.

"Why not, Harry? There's plenty of time before dinner. I'd fancy a walk myself actually." Ron gets to his feet, and Harry feels marginally better at the idea of Ron chaperoning them, unlike Ginny, who aims her brother a glare worthy of a banshee.

"Shouldn't you _both_ be catching up on that potion's essay? It's due tomorrow, and as far as I'm concerned _you_ haven't started, Ronald." Hermione offers without looking up from her homework.

Ron suddenly looks queasy and gradually lowers himself back into his chair.

Harry quickly decides to grip that excuse like a lifeline. "Hermione's right, Ginny. I better finish it, otherwise Slughorn'll —"

"Oh, whatever. See you later, Harry."

And then Ginny turns in an angry flourish of fiery hair, and Harry realises she still hasn't given him his map back yet. By the time he's called out for her to wait, she's already disappeared through the portrait hole.

"Sorry bout that one, mate. She's bloody moody lately. They're like that when they get older."

Hermione huffs and frowns at Ron until his expression turns mildly guilty, and when he asks her to help him finish his essay, she refuses with great dignity.

Ten minutes later, Harry still can't concentrate, and twice now Hermione's had to tell him off for tapping his quill against the table.

Twenty minutes later, with only two sentences on his sheet of parchment, Harry stands and stretches. "I — er — just going to the library."

Ron grunts, and Hermione does nothing but purse her lips and then glare at Ron as he tries to peek over her arm. Harry sighs, thinking neither of his friends will mind his absence much, and then feels a little better about sneaking off to hunt down Malfoy.

The corridors are quiet on a weekend, apart from the occasional far-off peel of laughter, and the exchanged nod with another student who Harry wishes wouldn't admire him so much, let alone goggle at him while passing.

Harry shakes his head, mulling over the bright eyes and red cheeks of the fourth year Ravenclaw boy he'd just passed when he rounds a corner and nearly collides with Theodore Nott.

Nott grunts, looks up and sees who's in front of him, and then glares, but the barbed insult Harry expects never come. Instead Nott impatiently gestures to the first year lurking uncertainly behind him, and snaps at her to hurry up.

Harry frowns, wondering what Nott could possibly be up to that involves an innocent eleven year old, but before he can say anything, the two of them move around him and head hastily away, the small girl practically running to catch up.

"Hey, Nott!" Harry calls, a sudden idea nagging him.

Surprisingly, Nott turns on his heel, growling in frustration as he glares at Harry. "What the fuck do you want, Potter? I'm _busy._ "

"Er," Harry's gaze falls on the Slytherin girl, but she won't meet his eyes, keeping her own trained awkwardly on the floor. "Have you seen Malfoy?" The question slips out before Harry has time to even think about whether asking it is a good idea, and now that he sees the annoyance in Nott's face change into intrigue, he supposes it wasn't.

"Have I seen _Malfoy?_ " He says Malfoy's name as though it leaves a sour taste behind on his tongue, and strangely enough, Harry finds that it irritates him. "Malfoy as in _Draco_ Malfoy — the guy whose father is a fucking joke?"

Harry grits his teeth. "Yeah, that one, I s'pose. Seen him around?"

Then suddenly all of the malicious humour Nott found within badmouthing his classmate drains from his face and is replaced by a sneer that Harry admits, may be _a little_ menacing.

"You seriously think I would associate with the likes of that failure? I, _I am important_ , Potter, and you must be more fucking stupid than they say to think I'd want to be seen around _him_." Nott practically spits the last word at Harry's feet, and then leaves again, the first year girl trailing after him like a reproachful shadow.

Harry watches them go, somewhat perplexed, realising the situation with Malfoy and the other Slytherins is worse than he thought.

He sighs, that little resurfacing niggle of guilt jabbing sharply into his chest. And he wonders whether this should make him feel more or less inclined to follow through with his plan of befriending the one person who's always made his life hell, yet the same person who now seems to have no one.

* * *

Draco leaves the kitchens with a full stomach, but somehow he's still _hungry_. It drives him insane, this feeling — the feeling of lacking something just out of reach, of not getting what he needs. It's similar to the feeling he gets when he thinks about the unattainability of Harry Potter.

Draco gnashes his teeth together and walks a little faster. He just needs to stop by his dormitory to grab his coat, and then he'll leave — he'll go somewhere hidden and allow his own personal and inescapable hell to consume him.

After finding his coat where he left it, and thankfully not in some piss poor hiding spot — not that Draco would have much difficulty locating it if it were missing — Draco casts a quick _tempus_ charm, and sees that he has just over half an hour to get outside. It gets dark quickly at this time of year, and he doesn't want to take any chances.

All of a sudden, Draco feels nervous. He stands alone in his dorm room, five empty four posters staring at him with judgement, and it makes Draco wipe his hands on his trousers. He thinks about all the scrunched, half-read letters his mother sent him, and for a split second he wishes he'd replied — wishes he'd given in.

But no. He won't. _He can't._

Draco swallows away his hesitation, curls his fingers, and then shoves his wand deep into his pillow slip. He tells himself it's because he doesn't want to lose it, and not because where he's going, he won't be needing it.

Then he leaves, shuts the door behind him, and the soft thud it gives seems final somehow.

People try to catch his eye in the common room, try to wordlessly tell him that even though they hate him for something his father did, he still beat Potter, and for that they're thankful. Draco doesn't look at any of them, instead he stares ahead, the door to the dungeons looming closer with each step he takes.

He's almost there, almost made it unhindered, but then fucking Nott barges in, and Draco would be pleased about the troubled frown on Nott's ugly face if he weren't feeling so troubled himself. There's a tiny first year at Nott's side, the same first year Draco remembers snarling at this morning, and upon seeing him she becomes sort of petrified for a brief moment, and then races towards the dorms.

Nott however, loses his harried demeanour as soon as he notices Draco, and gives him a spiteful scowl. "Malfoy, off to meet Potter, are you? Reckon it'll make you look good by hanging around with the Saviour?"

"What? What the fuck are you —"

"' _What?'_ " Nott's imitation is pathetic and makes Draco want to punch him. "Golden fuckwit was roaming about upstairs, looking for you."

Something in Draco's chest simultaneously caves in and flutters at the same time. "I don't care." He aims to step around Nott and make his escape, but the bastard sidesteps him.

"I don't know what you're planning, but just remember, _Malfoy,_ you'll always be daddy's boy, not Potter's boy."

Draco hears the rush of blood in his hears, smells the putrid haze of Nott's breath in his face and the sweat on his skin, and _fuck_ he wants to attack, wants to hit and _maim_ , but he knows he won't be able to stop. Not now, not when it's _so close._

So Draco simply closes his eyes, attempts to steady his pulse, and listens to the sound of Nott laughing, and then, thankfully, striding away.

Draco hurries out, and takes the stairs to the entrance hall two at a time. Why is Potter looking for him? And why, alongside the dread at the bottom of Draco's stomach — the humiliation over what Potter couldn't have _missed_ against his thigh after the match — did there have to be a thrumming hope at the idea of possibly seeing Potter _right now?_

The wild heat that Draco can feel building in his veins, flowing throughout his body as the sky becomes darker, begs for him to find Potter immediately, to touch him and _claim_ him. But Draco can't — he has to get out, has to _run —_

"Malfoy!"

And there's the voice — the voice Draco wants to swallow whole, the voice he wants to drown in and never stop listening to — but he can't, because he has to go, he has to leave before he it's too late.

So, naturally, he stops.

Because it's Harry Potter saying his name, and like a dog to its master, Draco can't resist his call.

Draco hears Potter's footsteps get louder and quicker as they come closer, as though, Merlin forbid, Potter's actually _running_ to catch up to him. Draco doesn't turn around, he only stares at the gigantic double doors of the entrance hall and wishes he had the strength to ignore the boy with atrocious black hair and go out of them.

But he stays, and then Potter's at his side, saying in a voice so breathless it makes Draco breathless too, "good job on the match this morning."

And Draco nearly crumbles, because that can't be it — he can't have stopped, put everything at risk, just to hear Potter say _that_.

Draco blinks, trying to squash the desperation he feels rapidly trying to make its way into fuming and unstoppable rage.

"Is that all?" He asks, calmly he hopes, but even to his own ears he sounds aggravated.

"I — er, well —" Potter shuffles his feet, fidgets, and Draco mustn't look at him, mustn't take his eyes off that door. Because any second now, it'll come — _'Why did you have an erection against my leg today, Malfoy?'_

But it doesn't come. Instead, Potter inhales deeply and then says in a rush, "Actually, I was — well, I was wondering if you've finished that Potion's essay yet?"

Draco loses his own battle, and his eyes snap towards Potter. He's a bit shorter than Draco, and he's made up of mismatched clothes and wide green eyes, and Draco's never wanted to shove someone against a wall and devour them as much as he wants to right now.

But then Potter's question echoes in his head, and anger and disappointment come crashing down upon him at the same time, because of course Potter means _'if you help me finish mine I won't tell anyone about what happened this morning.'_

How could he have meant anything else?

Draco's eyes burn, his fists ball, and his shoulders quiver. "I have to go," it comes out as a growl, rasping and resentful, and even though Potter tells him to wait, Draco doesn't.

The night swallows him whole as he runs out of the castle and onto the grounds, the cold air stroking his cheeks, urging him to go faster, to _hurry_ — because the sky is navy and strewn with stars. And that can only mean that the moon is not far away.

Draco can dimly hear Potter shouting his name, and he wonders if maybe Potter is chasing him too. But no, someone like Harry Potter would never chase Draco Malfoy, and Draco hates himself for thinking, even for a moment, that something like that could be possible.

He runs faster, his surroundings blurring into nothing around him before honing into definitive images that Draco becomes aware of, even though he can't see them from moving too quickly. His body feels like it's burning, as though he's going to combust, and it's so uncomfortable that Draco wants to fall to the ground and scream, but he can't, not yet, not until he reaches the shelter of the tree line.

He gasps in the frigid air, but each breath only makes him crave more, and all at once it feels as though he's going to suffocate.

But he doesn't, he breathes. Because then he's within the daunting skirts of the Forbidden Forest, and Draco knows he's safe. He's made it.

And that's his last thought before everything inside of him comes to a scorching and screeching halt, and he _changes_.

* * *

Harry's throat feels raw from shouting, but Malfoy won't stop, and bloody hell, when did the bugger get so damn _fast?_

Harry comes to a stop on the hillside, Hagrid's hut, cozy and puffing smoke, in perfect view. He tries to catch his breath, but it's freezing, and his whole face seems stuck in that ice and fire stage, where it's so cold that it feels hot.

Normally, Harry would simply go down to Hagrid's and enjoy a steaming hot cup of tea and try and fend off a rock cake, but nothing about this situation is normal.

Because Draco Malfoy ran — he ran as though his life depended on it, and now more than ever, Harry knows something's not right. Something serious. Harry thinks back to the library, trying to ignore Malfoy's predatory stance and the unnameable look in his eyes, and remembers the book Malfoy dropped.

It was only a fleeting idea, the one where Harry thought Malfoy might have picked up some sort of dangerous beast and hidden it away in the forest, but now it seems not only plausible, but likely.

Harry's eyes narrow as he stares into the forbidding darkness of the trees, and wonders if instead of his usual goal of making Harry's life miserable this year, Malfoy has decided he'd rather get himself killed instead. Harry ignores the voice in his head, the one that sounds suspiciously like Hermione, that tells him he always does things likely to warrant death himself.

Harry stands there motionlessly, contemplating what he should do — whether he should do what's right, for the safety of everyone in the castle and even Malfoy himself, which is to follow Malfoy in and find out what he's doing, or whether he should do what the Hermione voice in his head wants him to do — turn around and go work on his Potion's essay, and forget everything to do with Draco Malfoy and his weird mysterious problem.

And that's when he hears the howl.

It's broken, pained, but long enough so the end of it blends into the night, and Harry has to wonder if he just imagined it or not. But he has chills up his spine, and he can feel the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end, and suddenly he's thirteen again, watching Remus Lupin tackle Sirius Black to the ground, and there's teeth and whines and _howls_ —

"Potter."

Harry whirls around.

Severus Snape stands in a shroud of black robes not far behind him, his wand gripped tight and his face sallow and haunted.

"Professor —"

"Go inside. Now."

Harry expected docked points and reprimands, not the low and somewhat urgent sound of Snape's voice.

"But I — but Malfoy —"

Something in Snape's eyes flashes at Malfoy's name, but Harry doesn't get the chance to finish.

" _Now._ "

Harry reluctantly complies, unnerved by Snape's gaze digging inbetween his shoulder blades on his way back up to the castle.

Harry walks into the great hall for dinner with an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach, knowing he won't eat much, even though the tables are decorated with his favourite steak and kidney pie.

He falls into the seat opposite Ron and Hermione, and is almost immediately bombarded by Ron's near hysterical, "where've you been?" Because Harry got to miss out on homework, whereas Ron wasn't so fortunate.

Harry guess by Hermione's sigh that she has some idea as to where he's been, so he doesn't bother answering.

"Harry has a lot of catching up to do," Hermione says to no one in particular. Harry and Ron share a look of unease from across the table.

"I need to tell you both something," Harry murmurs, picking a thread in his sleeve.

Ron brightens considerably, "what happened? Did Ginny finally — _ow_ ," he rubs his shoulder, where Hermione's elbow has just left an impression in his jumper.

Harry's eyes narrow, wondering what his two friends might know about what Ginny has in stall for him, and why they won't tell him. "Not, it's, er — it's about Malfoy."

Hermione rolls her eyes, Ron looks at his food as though he just found a bat bogey in it, and Harry wishes he hadn't said anything.

"I know what you're both thinking," he defends himself. "But I saw Malfoy run into the Forbidden Forest just now, and I mean _run_ , as though he was scared shitless by something."

"Harry," Hermione begins. "When are you going to realise it's best if you just stay away?"

"But you don't understand — listen, whatever it is, Snape's in on it too. And it's not the first time I've seen him around when Malfoy's —"

"Oh yeah, here," Ron interrupts, not having followed the conversation at all. He pulls something from his pocket and hands Harry his map back, and Harry doesn't think he's ever been so glad to see something in his life.

"Brilliant, Ron. Thanks." He grabs it, gets up from the table, and doesn't need to turn around to know of the disapproving look Hermione sends in Ron's direction.

He shuts himself in the first empty classroom he comes across, and spreads the map out on one of the desks. He doesn't waste time before scanning the parchment for two names in particular, and after more than five minutes of searching through the same corridors and grounds, he can't find either Draco Malfoy or Severus Snape.

His heart thuds with nervous excitement, because he knows he's found something here, that there's something not right going on, and after he finds out what, he'll tell Dumbledore, and no doubt save everyone from some terrible danger.

Harry doesn't stop to think if that's the real reason he hurries up to his dorm room and grabs his invisibility cloak — if saving people is his top priority right now. It has to be, though, because there's no way the curiosity that's always been Draco Malfoy can cause Harry to lose focus on what's really important.

After throwing on his cloak upstairs, Harry treads silently back down to the entrance hall, and then out onto the grounds. He tries to imagine what he's getting himself into, pictures Snape and Malfoy tending to some sick, howling creature, training it to be one of Voldemort's beasts.

The thought makes him feel a little ill, but also urges his feet to move faster, and soon enough he's taking the step that will hide him from the light of the moon, and shroud him in the shadows of tree leaves and hidden things.

The forest is so quiet Harry can hear himself breathe. From behind him there is the occasional rustle of leaves and groaning of trees that are too old to lift up their branches, but other than that, if Harry weren't apprehensive he'd think it's almost _peaceful._

He follows the path deeper, skirting tree roots that he knows try to trip him on purpose, and bushes which are overgrown and spiked with thorns, attempting to block his way through.

Every few seconds Harry has to grip the edges of his cloak to stop it from snagging on twigs and things even sharper, and by the time he nears a small clearing his brow is sweating. But then something tugs the corner of his cloak abruptly backwards and Harry mutters a curse under his breath, wishing forests didn't have to be so bloody annoying.

The delicate material of his invisibility cloak has been caught in a fork of branches, and with an impatient jerk Harry sets it free, only to find that the movement throws his feet off balance, and then he's slipping.

It's only a small hillock, but it's littered with uneven roots and stones which dig into Harry's side as he falls and rolls. He tries to hold his wand to his chest, so as not to have it snap in two, but a painful nudge to his wrist by a shard of rock sends his fingers open and his wand rolling away from him.

The dim light of its lumos lands several feet away, near the edge of a clearing, and when Harry finally halts too, his cloak now tangled around his torso, he admits to himself that this was a bad idea.

Because then he hears the growling — low and deep and rumbling, and it isn't until after Harry's on his feet and halfway to his wand that he sees it coming towards him from the opposite side of the clearing.

A wolf, snow white and dangerous, its paws the size of a tiger's, and its fangs bared and ready. It looks lethal, frightening, but somehow —

 _— beautiful._


	5. Chapter 5

**_CHAPTER 5: Memories & Reality _**

_The halls of the manor are dark and cold, dripping with memories Draco can never return to, not after the vivid image of fangs dripping with saliva, coated in his own blood, has been burnt into the back of his eyelids._

 _"The first time is always the worst," his mother tells him. But how can she know? How can anyone possibly know of this helplessness?_

 _Her hand rests on the small of Draco's back as she guides him, as though he doesn't know where to go, as though he no longer belongs in his own home. She probably thinks she's comforting him, but Draco knows, he can sense the disgust, the revulsion she feels at touching him._

 _Her own son._

 _And it makes the trembling worse._

 _"That's what Severus said. He should be here soon, and with him he shall bring what you require." Narcissa Malfoy aims for calm and composed, the perfected picture she has always been, the picture Draco grew up trying to replicate._

 _But her voice shakes, and Draco knows this is hard for her too._

 _'Please — anything but this, My Lord,' she'd begged, her face torn with terror and desperation. 'Please. This will ruin us.'_

 _Yet what was left to ruin? Lucius Malfoy was gone, locked up, and now his wife's tears make his son feel like a prisoner in his own body._

 _They reach the dungeons, and as she unlocks the bars his mother's hand leaves Draco's back, and he's glad._

 _Metal scrapes against stone, and the harsh sound echoes in Draco's ears and makes his head throb._

 _"It hurts," he whispers. He doesn't mean to say it aloud, but right now he's too weak to feel vulnerable._

 _His mother sniffs, and Draco knows she's crying again. And it's not fair — because Draco should be the one crying, the one screaming. Because this_ hurts _, and he can't get away. He can't get away because his father is gone, and now this family is up to him._

 _So he steps into the dungeon, into the stale blackness, and cringes when the door clangs shut behind him. The sound of the key turning in the lock makes Draco's heart stammer in fear, and he whirls around, gripping the cold, rusted steel in his hands as he stares into his mother's eyes._

 _She doesn't look at him, instead her lips thin with grimness and her shaped brows crease._

 _"Mother, please." Draco's voice is tiny, pathetic. He wants to shout at her, wants to demand she admit that it's not his fault. He didn't ask for this — he didn't choose this. It's his father's fault — Lucius's fault. "Don't do this."_

 _Her pale eyes flick up to his then, and in them there is no sympathy, only remorse and longing for the life that slipped through their fingers._

 _Narcissa Malfoy walks away, leaves him alone with the pain seeping into his bones and the unrelenting terror of what's to come._

* * *

 _Draco is on fire. He has to be. What else can explain the burning — the feeling as though he is going to die from flaming hot pain?_

 _He's hunched in on himself, his back pressed to the stone wall which should be cold, but instead feels hot and uncomfortable, just like the tremors wracking through his body._

 _Dimly, through all the scorching haze and the numb veil of his thoughts, Draco becomes aware that there's someone standing in front of him._

 _He looks up and almost immediately flattens himself against the wall, shying away from bright wand light._

 _"He's fevered. It has begun."_

 _Draco knows that voice, knows the lank hair and the Potion fumes that go with it._

 _Snape lowers himself to Draco's level, holds something out towards him. "Drink, it will help."_

 _Draco thrashes his head to the side, screws his eyes tightly closed, because his throat is like hot sandpaper and he can't swallow, let alone drink anything._

 _A hand grabs his jaw, holds his head still. And Draco feels sudden uncontrollable rage rise in his chest, along with the desire to bite, to rip away the arm of any who dare mould him to their will._

 _But then there's cold liquid sloshing against his lips, over his swollen tongue, and it feels so good even though it tastes putrid, that Draco wants more, wants to be soothed from all the burning, but then the hard press of the goblet to his chin is gone, and he's parched once more._

* * *

 _One moment Draco is being taken by the fire, and the next he is released._

 _Only now he feels different somehow — whole and strong, but wrong. So wrong. He's caught in an unfamiliar body, one that can feel everything, hear everything._

 _There's mice scuttling along the wall in the far corner of the dungeon, and dewy dampness slowly trickling down the stonework above them. There's voices somewhere above him, muffled through two floors of the manor, but still strangely clear._

 _"—stories about them going rabid even when the moon is not full. They're never human again, Severus — they're monsters."_

 _"You cannot keep him locked up forever, Narcissa."_

 _"It's for the best. I am, after all, Draco's… its mother."_

 _A sob. He thinks it comes from upstairs, but then he realises it sounds like a whine, and it breaks its way out of his own chest._

 _"And what of his education?"_

 _"Go back to school and have him be seen by the public? How is it possible to keep such a secret as this one, Severus?"_

 _"If he is at Hogwarts, I can help him."_

 _"No," panic. "He can't go. Imagine what they'd say if they found out — what Lucius would say."_

 _Tears, defeat._

 _Draco covers his ears with feet that feel too furry, too clumsy — paws that don't belong. He whines again, but it turns into a howl, long and helpless._

 _Because Draco's trapped. And it feels like he'll never be free again._

* * *

 _It must be morning._

 _Draco's exposed, shivering, no longer covered in thick fur, and his clothes lie beside him in tattered ruins._

 _Something is suddenly draped over his naked form — a cloak, and when Draco cracks his eyes open he recognises Severus Snape, and he wonders whether last night was just a deranged dream._

 _Snape turns, averts his eyes as Draco heaves himself up, readjusts the cloak to cover himself._

 _"I'm going back," Draco croaks. His vocal cords are strained, and when Snape levels his black eyes at him, Draco knows he heard him howling. "She can't stop me."_

 _"If that is your decision, I can provide —"_

 _"I don't need your help," Draco snarls. He gets to his feet shakily, his body feeling as though he's been stretched, dismantled, and then put hurriedly back together again._

 _"Do you think it wise, running around Hogwarts unchained? If you accept my supply of Wolfsbane —"_

 _"I can look after myself," Draco spits, something in his throat rumbling, willing to let out a growl Draco doesn't let come._

 _Snape's eyes narrow. "It will not be like last night. You will lose all control, all inhibition —"_

 _"I don't give a_ fuck _. I'm a monster, remember?" Draco's chest heaves, his words sharp and bitter in his mouth, and he feels hungry for something he can't name. "My wand. Where is it?"_

 _Snape doesn't say anything, and each second that passes causes Draco's fists to curl tighter until he can feel the bite of his nails in his palms. "Where's my wand?" He hisses._

 _"Your mother thinks it best you stay down here for a few days. While things… settle."_

 _The word 'mother' rattles around Draco's head and makes him want to curse. "She plans to keep me down here forever."_

 _"That is untrue, Draco —"_

 _"Don't fucking lie! I heard her — she doesn't give a shit about me. All she cares for is her — her reputation." Draco hates himself, because his eyes sting and he won't cry — he won't._

 _Snape's expression is unreadable, and as he swirls around and leaves the dungeons, Draco can't help but feel the weight of all the words that weren't said._

* * *

 _The house elves bring him clothes and meals, but the side-glances they steal and the way they disappear within seconds of arriving tells Draco they fear him. The thought would have once made him smug, proud even, because those creatures used to be bellow him, but now — now he is one of them._

 _And it makes him sick._

 _He doesn't eat, and when he tries to he brings it back up, unable to stomach the food he used to eat. He wonders when this will pass — if it will ever pass, if he will ever be able to go back to being an ordinary boy of sixteen, with parents who serve a madman, and a massive crush on the boy-who-lived._

 _Draco thinks about what kind of look Potter might wear if he could see Draco now, if he knew. And the mere idea makes Draco so scared, so appalled, that he knows Potter of all people_ can never find out.

 _He paces the dungeons, surprised that he can hear things nearly just as well while human. His mother doesn't come to visit, but Draco can still hear her crying._

 _Sometimes he shouts to himself, screams until his lungs hurt. He curses the Dark Lord and Fenrir Greyback, and the mark on his shoulder that is red and raw and hasn't yet scarred._

 _He curses Lucius Malfoy, too._

* * *

 _Draco has been locked away for a week before he breaks._

 _He craves fresh air and the tingling of magic through his fingertips. He craves meat that's red and bleeding — food that will fill his stomach._

 _The bars seem insignificant beneath his hands, and with a lift and a shove he has them off their hinges, his shoulders aching from the force of it. He knows it's not normal, that such a task without magic should be impossible._

 _But Draco's not normal anymore, he has to remember that._

 _He strides through the halls of a place that no longer feels like home, and when he throws open the drawing room doors, his mother turns her ashen face towards him — and her expression is one of pure fear._

 _"D—Draco. You — you can't be here—"_

 _"I can be where I want. I'm not going down there again. You can't make me." It comes out as a seethe, and Narcissa gradually lowers herself back down onto the chaise, her fingers digging into the velvet._

 _"I'll be going back to Hogwarts in September," he says, and when there isn't a reply, he walks out of the room, and into what will be his future._

* * *

 _The last two weeks of August are filled with stony silences and his mother tentatively passing him in the corridors, trying to touch his arm and say, 'my son.'_

 _But it's all a lie, and Draco cringes away from her._

 _The house elves provide him steak at Draco's demand, and he spends his free time walking around the manor grounds._

 _Sometimes he'll catch his mother's pale face watching him from one of the windows, and Draco will frown and hold his wand tighter. It didn't take him long to find it in one of Narcissa's jewellery boxes. It smells like Draco, a scent that's familiar and foreign all at once, and after following its scent, the metal box's lid had snapped easily under Draco's grip._

 _Draco sees himself off to the train station. He doesn't have a plan, doesn't know how he'll cope. But he won't back down, won't let his name be slighted. He won't let his mother get what she wants._

 _So he boards the steaming Hogwart's Express, and when from the corner of his eye he sees black hair and green eyes, Draco feels his heart pound ten times stronger than it used to, and he knows whatever he's getting himself into will be hell._

 _Yet a hell with Harry Potter in it, seems to Draco a hell worth living in._

* * *

Harry stares, frozen, wondering why the horror he should feel doesn't come — instead only wonder, a fascination as to why such a creature, white as snow, should come to be in a place like the Forbidden Forest.

But then the wolf growls, its teeth bared and its eyes narrowed — eyes that are icy and blue, yet somehow _grey_ — and Harry remembers that this is a beast, and that he should be running.

He steps back, feels his shoe collide with a rock, nearly stumbles, and then catches sight of his wand several feet away. And even though he feels curious and captivated, he knows without a doubt that he must get to it.

So Harry does what everyone thinks he does best — he acts without thinking, and lunges for his wand. He snatches it up at the same time the wolf pounces, and Harry only has a split second to conjure the strongest shield charm he can manage before snapping jaws and knife-like claws come to a jarring halt a metre away from his face.

Harry releases a painful gasp, his heart hammering, as he takes several quick steps backwards, hands racing to cover himself with his invisibility cloak again.

As soon as the material drapes over Harry's body, hiding him, the animal's confusion registers in its eyes, and its stance becomes defensive and wary instead of threatening.

Harry stands dead still, not daring to breathe, unable to look away from the magnificent creature before him. Its body is level with Harry's torso, bigger than any dog he's ever seen, except for perhaps Fluffy — something Harry holds no fond memories of — and its nose twitches as it searches for Harry's scent.

Harry knows he has to move, because any second now, the wolf will charge, his shield charm will give way, and Harry doesn't know if he has the strength to produce another so soon.

But then a twig cracks somewhere to the right, and the wolf's head swiftly turns towards it, nose still in the air. And somehow, Harry's not nearly as scared as he should be, instead he finds himself angry and disgusted by the fact that Snape and Malfoy could want to harm such a beautiful animal — even if it is a werewolf, which Harry suspects for its size, it might be.

There's more cracking of branches, and then suddenly a jet of magic streams towards them, singing the fur of the wolf's back.

Everything after that happens so quickly, the giant wolf lunges in the direction of its unknown attacker, who Harry knows is either Snape or Malfoy, and while he wants nothing more than to go and stop them himself, he has a feeling he should tell Dumbledore first.

So he takes his chance — he spins around and darts out of the clearing, heading for the trees and hopefully the same path he came in on.

He doesn't stop running, even though his chest hurts and his legs feel scraped raw from stabbing branches, not until he escapes the fringes of the forest and the shadowy silhouette of the castle comes into view.

* * *

"Professor, I know what I saw — and I'm telling you, Snape and Malfoy are up to something out there. Something to do with that wolf!"

Dumbledore just smiles at him with that annoyingly serene blue gaze — which makes Harry feel like he's being opened up and seen into — and then offers him a sherbet lemon.

After Harry declines, his Headmaster says softly, "I can assure you, Harry, anything Professor Snape may be doing, is because I have asked him to."

"But — but what about Malfoy? He —"

"I doubt Mr Malfoy has anything to do with this, Harry."

Harry closes his hanging jaw, because he's pretty sure Malfoy has _everything_ to do with this. But Dumbledore seems unusually stern, causing Harry to fidget in his chair, and wonder why he bothered coming in the first place. Maybe Hermione's right, and Harry shouldn't be so quick to blame Malfoy.

But then he remembers the running, and the sweat on Malfoy's brow when he'd growled, 'I need to go,' and Harry knows something isn't right.

"Tell me, Harry. How do you think Mr Malfoy is going with his studies this year?"

The question catches Harry off guard. "Er — what? I don't know, good I suppose. He's always been just behind Hermione, hasn't he?"

Dumbledore gives him this sort of sad look, which makes Harry squirm, because he's not sure where this is going. "Sadly, he has fallen behind, and it seems with none of his classmates to support him, the young man has been having a rough time."

Harry doesn't know why Dumbledore is telling him any of this, so he just nods and pretends to admire the brimming shelf of books to the side, hoping this line of conversation is over, because Harry already knows this about Malfoy, and he doesn't want anybody else knowing that he knows.

"Promise me one thing, my boy," Dumbledore says, and Harry steels himself for what'll come next. "No matter what you see, promise me you won't go running off into the Forbidden Forest at this time of night again. Or any time, for that matter. Will you do that for me, Harry?"

It's not what Harry expected, he was waiting for something along the lines of 'be Malfoy's friend,' but he's been failing at that so far, and he doesn't stop to think maybe that's because he hasn't been trying hard enough to begin with.

Harry feels a little guilty about lying, but he's come too far to back out now if offered a chance to see what Malfoy's up to. So he hopes for the best and replies, "alright, Sir."

He has a feeling Dumbledore can see right through him, anyway.

* * *

Harry doesn't go to bed, like Dumbledore suggested he do.

Instead he gets out his cloak again, throws it on, and treks down to the library. He navigates the stacks of books silently, searching for the right aisle by the light of his wand.

He finds it, withdraws the book he's after, and flips it open to the contents page. His finger traces the words on the page, heart skipping a beat when he lands on the one he's looking for. Turning to the correct page, Harry encounters the sort of dense paragraphs Hermione would call 'light reading' but have Harry squinting and rereading the same sentences several times over.

A lot of the stuff he remembers from that dreaded Defence against the Dark Arts lesson Snape had taught in place of Lupin, but soon enough his eyes skim to paragraphs that seem unfamiliar yet relevant.

' _The appearance of werewolves differ, yet studies have found that generally the colour of the fur stays similar to that of the individual's hair while in their true form. (Note; due to interference by Professor Emerett Picardy, the author was scolded harshly for the use of the term 'true form,' in regards to humanity, as according to Professor Picardy, the only true thing about a werewolf is its monstrous tendencies, and its inability to ever be 'truly human' again. For more information, see his work 'Lupine Lawlessness: Why Lycanthropes Don't Deserve to Live.')_

 _Experiments performed in the nineteenth century show that the more vicious and extreme the bite which began the individual's disease, the more unnatural and dangerous the werewolf will appear when transformed. It is important to note, however, that all werewolves whether young or old, pretty or ugly, are extremely dangerous, and should be avoided at all costs._

 _In more recent years, a minority of the wizarding population known as the WRA, or, 'Werewolf Rights Activists,' began petitions to allow the Wolfsbane potion be given to anyone suffering the condition of Lycanthropy free of charge. Sadly, the Ministry did not approve of the suggestion, as such an act would result in the loss of employment across many Apothecaries throughout the country, and put freelance potion makers out of business. The WRA insisted this a poor reason, and stated in an article of outrage in 'the Prophet,' that the Ministry's rebuttal was due to pure prejudice. Unfortunately, after the publication of this article, the WRA was mysteriously disbanded, and not much has been heard of them since._

 _Records have shown that the consumption of Wolfsbane potion will not only keep the individual in control of his or her own thoughts throughout the transformation period, but will also reduce their ill health preceding and following nights of the full moon. However, the potion does not alter the appearance of the wolf or make their bite any less contagious, therefore be warned._

 _There have been rare occasions of the disease being welcomed and embraced by an individual until they are consumed by insanity, and even while the moon is not full they still maintain wolfish characteristics and are capable of spreading Lycanthropy through wounds inflicted with their teeth and fingernails. The most infamous case of this is Fenrir Greyback, the evasive and wanted criminal who is said to work with Death Eaters._

 _Thankfully, there have been no traces to show that the surrogate parent werewolf (note; referred to as the werewolf who transmitted the condition to another) passes on their own ill intentions and evil characteristics to their victims. Even the preference between walking on four legs or two while transformed is entirely random amongst werewolves, yet it is fair to assume they all like their meat as red as they can get it, and they all have an average body heat ten times hotter than an ordinary —'_

"Who's there!?"

Filch's croaking and straining voice causes Harry to slam the book shut, and then quickly shove it back onto the shelf.

He grabs his wand, ensures his cloak is secure, and then he doesn't stop running until he reaches his dorm and the safety of his own four poster.

Even then, though, sleep struggles to find him, and when it does his whirling thoughts turn into dream-fogged answers to his own questions — and they plague him through the night.

* * *

Sunshine, filtered through gnarled branches. Birdsong, too loud and high-pitched.

Morning.

And Draco thinks he's made it, until he opens his eyes and sees the blood on his hands.

He panics, unfeeling of the dry leaves sticking to his bare skin, all he knows is the red against his pale skin — the red under his fingernails.

"It was a deer."

He's there — of course he's bloody there, and Draco would have been able to smell him if it weren't for all the blood.

"Draco," Snape's voice is calm, without concern, and even though Draco doesn't want concern, it still fucking infuriates him that _there isn't any there_.

He wishes he had clothes, something to cover himself with. But more than that, he wishes he could wash his hands.

There's a whimpering sound, and of course it comes from his own throat.

"Will you take heed of your mother's wishes now?"

Draco swallows away another whimper, and the faint taste of blood that makes him want to retch. "I — I can't."

"Then at least allow me to give you —"

" _No_. I don't want your fucking help."

"And if it is not a deer, next time, what then?"

Draco gulps down air that isn't fresh enough, digs his fingers into the matted forest floor, hating Snape, and his mother — hating _himself._

Something lingers though, beyond Snape's words, and Draco grabs at it with a fear that makes him tremble.

"What happened?" Snape stares at him with shrewd black eyes, and it isn't his nakedness that unnerves Draco, it's the feeling of being torn open and raw. "Was — was someone here?"

Silence. The birds have disappeared, because Draco's awake, and the birds hate him nearly as much as he hates himself.

"They got away," Snape says. But he doesn't say _'they might not next time,'_ and that's what matters most.

Draco doesn't ask who — because he doesn't want to know, _can't know_. He can't look someone in the eyes and think, _I almost killed you._

He gets to his feet, snatches the set of robes Snape now holds out to him, and Draco doesn't look back as he strides towards the tinkling sound of a running river, and away from the bitter sting of tears in his eyes.

* * *

Harry doesn't go to breakfast that morning. He makes up some sorry excuse to tell Ron, who just nods and looks thoroughly unconvinced of Harry's sudden cold, and leaves Harry to sit motionlessly on the side of his bed.

Snow white fur.

 _Hair that's nearly white — a head that Harry used to want to punch._

A body temperature that's too hot.

 _Malfoy grabbing his wrist during Quidditch, searing him. The unwavering heat emitting from his body. The confusion it made Harry feel._

The confusion it makes Harry feel now.

The grey eyes. _Piercing, like a storm. Furious at Harry, always Harry._

And the illness, the redness beneath the grey. Malfoy distancing himself.

Could it be real? Or is it all just coincidence, a farce Harry's made up because he's so used to suspecting his worst enemy.

But is that fair of him? Calling someone that who may now be everyone's enemy, and not just his own, makes Harry feel guilty and vile.

 _Do the Slytherins know?_

No, they just have too much pride, too slow to trust yet too quick to mistrust.

And then Harry remembers. Lucius Malfoy, his face painted in horror as the Prophecy fell from Harry's hand and shattered into a million shards across the Department of Mysteries. Lucius Malfoy, failing a job Voldemort had given him.

Yet how does Draco Malfoy fit? How and why did he —

 _Fenrir Greyback, the evasive and wanted criminal who is said to work with Death Eaters._

Harry's stomach convulses, and for a moment he thinks he might be sick. One breath, two, but he still feels repulsed.

Did Draco take it, then? The punishment for the Malfoy family? A boy with no choice, a boy who should disgust Harry, but now only makes him _sympathise._

It's all levels of fucked up, and Harry can't wrap his thoughts around it — can't decide whether all of this is even _true._

But then his gaze catches something from out of the tower window, and down on the grounds he sees Draco Malfoy, his shock of sunlit hair, making his way towards the castle.

And because Harry Potter is impulsive, and never thinks before making important decisions, he stuffs on his trainers and doesn't hesitate for even a second before dashing out of his dormitory, and into the throes of confrontation.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 6: Of Attempts and Wizarding Confectionary**_

Draco drags himself slowly up the hill, his feet sluggish, his head even worse. It's pounding, and his body feels as though he just ran a hundred miles. His teeth clench and his brows crease when he realises, he probably _did_.

He pauses at one of the shady elms, its branches blanketing out towards the sky and shielding Draco from the sharp morning light — light that's too bright and stupid, and dammit, who even _needs_ the sun to be that fucking bright?

Draco braces a hand against the trunk, takes a deep breath and squeezes his eyes closed. The texture of the bark beneath his palm is strangely comforting, as if connecting him to something whole and natural — something that won't shun or pity him.

He takes a few seconds to just stand there, and if he pretends hard enough it's as though he's in a world without people, and he's just Draco. Not Draco Malfoy, just Draco.

It won't last, he knows it won't, because any second now, students will start streaming out of the Great Hall, full from breakfast and ready to live normally, peacefully — ready to judge. Draco doesn't care, though, about what people think of him — he can't care.

But then like a punch to the stomach, he remembers he does care, at least about the opinion of one individual. An individual who's currently coming straight towards Draco with determination, face strangely skewed behind crooked glasses Draco wants to both smash and straighten.

Draco darts his gaze away, glares at the grass by his feet, thanking Merlin that he found his shoes before he left the forest, and thus manage to resemble someone decently attired. Not that Potter would notice — not that Draco _wants_ Potter to notice. In fact, if Draco has his way, Potter will walk straight past him and down to that giant oaf's house.

But Draco's luck, if he ever had any to begin with, has thoroughly run out this year, because Harry Potter stops right in front of him, close enough that Draco can see the dark rings under his eyes, yet far enough that if Draco wanted to reach out to him, he'd grasp nothing but air.

"Malfoy," Potter says his name in a way that means it's about to be followed by a string of something reproachful, but strangely enough Potter's lips — lips that seem pink and chewed with indecision, lips that Draco mustn't look at — clamp shut.

Draco doesn't say anything, because he's tired and sore and the sight of Potter, who obviously just got out of bed, looking dishevelled in such a way that does aggravating things to Draco's body, is just _too much_.

Maybe Potter wants to talk about yesterday, about what happened at the end of the Quidditch match, or how Draco had run off last night and — his thoughts come to a screeching halt. Because what if Potter ended up following him, what if the person Snape mentioned was _Potter?_

Suddenly Draco can't breathe. His nails dig into the tree bark, scratching some off with short cracks. Potter's eyes flit towards the sound, to Draco's hand, and they're green and wide and they _know something._

Draco watches Potter's throat work — a throat he wants to mould his lips and teeth around, a throat he wants to caress with his tongue. Draco hears Potter swallow, and even though he convinces himself that it can't be possible — because if Potter _did_ follow him, Draco's quite sure the inquisitive bastard would have gone straight to the Headmaster with what he saw, and Draco would be expelled immediately — he's still scared about what will come next.

Potter looks at him, Draco's shoulders tense, prepared, but then Potter smiles — awkward, hesitant — _he smiles_.

And Draco doesn't know what to do with that, until Potter says uncertainly, "about that Potion's essay?"

* * *

It's not what Harry meant to say — he swears it isn't. Something along the lines of, 'are you a Werewolf, Malfoy?' would have been better, but for some reason the words got stuck uncomfortably in Harry's throat, and he found he didn't _really_ want to say them after all.

Maybe it was the way Malfoy's nails sliced into the tree bark that threw him off guard, or maybe it's because Harry's sick of judging someone who has no one, and he knows he should wait and gather more proof. Yet somehow, deep down, it's probably because Harry knows Dumbledore's right, and Malfoy does just need a friend.

Whatever it is, however, no longer matters, because Harry's too busy pretending as though that's what he meant to say, and it's pretty damn difficult when Malfoy's staring at him like Harry just admitted he eats Bubotuber pus for breakfast each morning.

Harry searches desperately for something to say, needing to get rid of the stifled tension between them, which makes Harry feel as if Malfoy's either about to ignore him completely, or punch him in the face. He's not sure which would be worse.

"I — er — I mean, only if you want to — I can understand why you wouldn't — want to help me, that is —"

"Why don't you just ask Granger?" Malfoy's voice is hoarse, but strangely relieved.

"Um — well, she's always busy helping Ron, and so I thought that, er, maybe it'd be easier if she didn't have to help me too and… well — well, sometimes she can get… bossy," Harry finishes lamely, shrugging, and hoping to god that never gets back to Hermione.

"Besides, something tells me you haven't finished yours either," Harry says, trying not to squirm when Malfoy's eyes flash and glare at him suspiciously. He quickly adds, "maybe I can help you too."

It sounds small and stupid, even to Harry's own ears, especially when Malfoy snorts and replies, "what could _you_ possibly know about Potions that I don't?"

Harry refrains from grimacing, because the answer to that question would be an obvious 'nothing,' but he has a feeling that the Prince might know a thing or two that Malfoy doesn't.

Trying to maintain a semblance of confidence, Harry shrugs again. "A thing or two."

Malfoy rolls his eyes, and even though they look tired and faded, the gesture somehow makes Harry feel like he's getting on the right track. "So," Harry prompts, "this afternoon? Library?"

And then all at once Malfoy's expression changes, closes off and shuts Harry out, and he doesn't know why it makes him so annoyed, but _it does_.

Malfoy's hand slips from the tree, and then he's leaving, walking past Harry and up to the castle. Harry wants to call him a few names or tell him to wait, but the former wouldn't help Malfoy warm up to him, and the latter is too reminiscent of last night.

So instead Harry aims for half-hearted hopefulness, and calls out, "I'll see you then."

Even though he doesn't think Malfoy will show.

* * *

Draco spends the rest of the day unconscious, his face buried in his pillow and the curtains of his four poster tightly drawn and warded to keep out the sound of his bloody annoying roommates.

Luckily he came up when everyone was still down at breakfast, and even better, he found his wand in the same place he left it.

Now, he sleeps with it held in his fist, and by the time he wakes it's already half past four. And of course the first thought through Draco's head is the memory of Potter's words.

Draco stares up at the canopy of his bed, glaring at the grain of the wood, at the thousands of tiny lines. He's half tempted to go to the library, just to confirm that Potter _isn't_ there. Because of course he won't be. Why would he be?

Unless he's come up with some stupid little Gryffindor plan, or perhaps some way of cheating in Potions, some way that involves Draco — in which case, how very Slytherin of him. Draco dismisses the idea, realising Potter isn't smart enough for that, even though the glimpse of the scribbled notes Draco'd seen in Potter's potion's margins could say otherwise.

His eyes narrow, concluding it must have something to do with blackmail. Draco wonders if Potter's pathetic friends know what he's up to, and whether they're in on it or not. For some sick reason Draco thinks he wouldn't mind so much if it were only about him and Potter.

Before Draco knows it, he's on his feet, head swimming with a brief bout of vertigo, and something annoying and fluttery in his stomach, which he chooses to ignore. Most of his fatigue and muscle aches are gone, but he still feels like he could sleep for another twenty or so hours.

He dresses, slips into his shoes, noting with a frown that they need a polish, and then tosses up between shutting himself in the bathroom for a quick and most likely needed wank, or going straight down to the library before Potter has the chance to leave. After all, they hadn't exactly agreed on a time or anything, and Potter might already be gone — that's if he was even there to begin with.

Draco's fists curl, and before he can even decide what he's doing, he grabs his bag, shoves his Potion's notes in them, and heads out of the dorm.

Thankfully, on his way down, he doesn't encounter anyone infuriating and in need of a beating like Nott, nor are there many students loitering throughout the corridors, being a Sunday.

Draco enters the library with an expression he hopes is impassive, and makes a quick scan of each table as he passes, noting with something he won't call disappointment, that they all appear to be entirely Potterless.

He makes his way towards the quiet nooks at the back, where students normally go to either exchange the latest Weasley products or make out. Draco's nose turns up at the thought, but then all of a sudden he feels a lot lighter, because he catches the scent of something that's familiar and intoxicating, yet still not as familiar as Draco would like it to be. _Potter's scent_. Today it's a mixture of broom polish and treacle, the faint sweat on Potter's skin, and once again, that woodsy something — something entirely _Potter_.

Draco swallows, willing away the sudden tightening of his pants as he comes to a stop behind one of the towering book shelves. Potter's visible from the gaps above the books, elbow on the table and chin in his hand, as he flips the pages of something in his lap slowly.

Draco's torn, because he didn't actually think Potter would be here, and now that he _is_ , Draco doesn't know whether he should stand silently and watch what he normally doesn't let himself indulge in, or if he should give in to whatever Potter is trying to start, and go and sit with him.

And while that idea fills Draco with both apprehension and excitement, he knows that nothing good will come out of it.

Because Draco's a monster.

He thinks about Nott's words, about how he thought Draco wanted to use Potter to make himself look better, but quite frankly Draco doesn't give a shit about what people think (unless they're Potter) — at least that's what he's spent the last month telling himself — he's more surprised by the fact that apparently Potter doesn't care if they're seen together.

It's shocking, confusing, and makes Draco's fingers twitch with the urge to tangle in the mess of Potter's hair.

A sudden wave of something sickeningly sweet hits Draco in the senses, and he watches as Potter lifts something bright green to his mouth, and eats it. Draco recognises it as one of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, and is somehow caught in the surreality of watching Potter snacking, while _waiting for him._

Draco clears his throat, steps around the shelf, and gets to see Potter's eyes widen as he says, "hey, you came."

* * *

Harry blinks at the sight of Malfoy standing before him, his bag slung over one shoulder, and his face pale and etched with weariness.

"Was I not meant to?" Malfoy says after a while, yet the bite to his voice seems hollow.

"No — I just thought — never mind." Harry shuts his copy of Advanced Potion's making and slides it inconspicuously beneath his bag. When he looks up, Malfoy's shrewdly eyeing his hands in his lap, and Harry feels caught out.

"Want one?" Harry offers, fishing a box of Bertie's beans from his pocket and holding it out to Malfoy, attempting a distraction.

Malfoy looks from the beans, to Harry, and then back to the beans again. Then he sneers, and things seem somewhat normal.

"Alright, fine." Harry retracts his hand. "No beans. Got it."

"Essays, Potter. Or was there some other reason you wanted me here?" There's something weird behind Malfoy's words, and Harry's stomach flips — because Malfoy can't have figured him out, not that quickly.

"Essays, right," Harry says, ignoring Malfoy's question. He gets out his near blank sheet of parchment, and he can practically feel Malfoy's amusement as nothing but the essay title comes into view. Harry wills his cheeks not to burn and snaps, "Are you going to sit? Or do you plan on standing there all afternoon?"

Malfoy makes this weird grunting noise, but then takes the seat opposite Harry, removing his own homework from his bag and then spreading it out in front of him. Harry catches sight of Malfoy's neat, slanting script, and stupidly enough, feels as though he now has to better his own hand writing.

"So, what did you need help with, Potter?" Harry waits for the snide remark or critical assumption, but it doesn't come. In fact, Malfoy doesn't even meet his eyes as he prepares his ink well, and just as it's been pissing Harry off since the start of term, it pisses him off now too.

"What's wrong with you?" Harry blurts out. He regrets it immediately when Malfoy scowls and glares, gaze snapping up to meet Harry's. The grey smoulders, and Harry feels burned.

"Why the fuck does it matter?" Malfoy hisses. "Oh, don't tell me, it's because _you care_."

"No — maybe — it's not the point. I don't want to argue with you, Malfoy." Harry thinks Hermione would be proud, because he handled that maturely, and he's pretty sure his retort was reasonable.

Malfoy doesn't seem to agree, though, his eyes narrow even further and he seethes, "but that's what we do, isn't it Potter? We argue — we _fight_ —"

"It doesn't have to be," Harry says levelly.

Malfoy's mouth clamps shut, betraying the surprise his eyes try to hide. "What are you fucking on about? It's always been that way —"

"Well I'm sick of it."

" _What?_ "

"I'm sick of fighting you, Malfoy."

Malfoy simply stares, and Harry sees flecks of blue in his eyes amongst all the grey. The image of a wolf, snarling and white, flashes through his mind, and Harry swallows, shoving it away.

Malfoy's shock dissipates, and is replaced by an anger so sudden that his ink well tips and spills as Malfoy stands, slamming his hands on the table. "If this is about pity, then you can fucking take it and shove it —"

" _Shh!"_ Madame Pince's severe and disproving stare meets them from between two bookshelves, before she shakes her head and totters off, muttering to herself.

Harry resists the desire to snort, looks back at Malfoy, who's in the middle of packing his bag, and has just enough time to jump up from his own seat and fall into the one right next to Malfoy — effectively trapping the fuming blond in a small space surrounded by two walls, a table, and Harry.

" _Fucking move,_ Potter," Malfoy whispers lethally.

Harry doesn't move, he simply turns his parchment around and drags it across the table towards him. "I can't decide whether to make the introduction about the ingredients, or the effects of the potion." Harry says casually. "What do you think?"

"I think you can go and fuck yourself," Malfoy snarls back, yet his voice trembles at the end. Harry frowns, Malfoy's never had trouble throwing vulgar terms at him in the past.

"Don't think Madam Pince would approve, somehow," Harry vanishes the spilt ink and then sets his wand down, a good distance away from Malfoy, just to be safe.

Malfoy snorts, and mixed in with his derision there's a trace of humour.

Harry feels like he just caught the Snitch when Malfoy sighs and finally lowers himself back into his seat, even though he sits on the edge, as far away from Harry as he possibly can.

Harry pretends to scratch the back of his head, and gets a surreptitious sniff of his armpit in the process. He doesn't smell _that_ bad, even though he didn't get the chance to shower this morning. Harry grimaces, wondering whether Malfoy's sensitive to that kind of stuff — if Harry's suspicions are right, then chances are he probably _is._ Harry doesn't think that should make him want to shower more often now, but somehow it _does._

"Start with the effects of the potion, then move onto the ingredients," Malfoy supplies, somewhat grudgingly, breaking Harry from his thoughts.

Harry picks up his quill, eager, and begins his sentence.

"You'll have to write neater than that, or I won't be able to make corrections."

Harry rolls his eyes and then crosses out the words he thought perfectly neat — yet clearly aren't up to Malfoy's standards.

"Not like that! That looks horrid. Here, use a new piece of parchment." Malfoy slides one of his own sheets over to Harry, and if Harry weren't so annoyed he'd be thankful.

But then Malfoy's fingers bump the edge of Harry's hand, and the blond pulls back so fast it is as if Harry were about to hex him. Harry can still feel the heat where Malfoy's skin touched his, and for some unknown and irritating reason, it makes his chest feel tight and stuffy.

It must be fear — that has to be it. Because if Harry's right, and Malfoy's a werewolf, with skin seemingly on fire, he's sitting right next to him, and Malfoy could lash out, right? Malfoy could _attack._ But when Harry thinks about it, he knows he's not scared, he's never been scared of Malfoy, and he can't start now.

Harry peers to the left, noticing the way Malfoy's hands clench on the table, and if Harry were to look up higher he would see that Malfoy's watching him.

"Thanks," Harry says, hoping he sounds normal, and writes the title of his essay anew. Malfoy doesn't reply, but some of the tension in his shoulders drains away. "What's yours called?"

"None of your business." Harry turns due to the brusqueness in Malfoy's voice, even though he knows he shouldn't be surprised, Malfoy's always been a waspish prat, and Harry doesn't think that'll ever change.

"That's an interesting name. How long did it take to come up with?" Harry pops another bean in his mouth, feeling accomplished after writing the first sentence of his introduction.

Malfoy sighs, long and drawn out, yet there's a waver to it that tells Harry he's amused. His reply is a confirmation. "About a year."

Harry laughs, and a little daringly, decides to offer Malfoy the beans again. But then he sees that Malfoy's staring at him with this skewed look on his face, and his cheeks are _pink_.

Harry nearly balks, but then Malfoy recovers, taking up his own quill and hastily moving it across his own parchment, false concentration in place. "I don't want any of your disgusting beans, Potter," Malfoy mutters.

"Don't you like them?" Harry presses.

"No," the nib of Malfoy's quill digs into his parchment too hard, and leaves behind a big black smear.

Harry's lips quirk to the side. "What _do_ you like, then?"

There's a cracking sound, and Harry's brows raise when he sees that the nib has snapped right off, making a mess of Malfoy's essay.

A muscle in Malfoy's jaw pulses, and for some reason Harry finds it fascinating. "Chocolate frogs?"

Malfoy's eyes close, and Harry watches the paleness of his eyelashes fanning over his cheekbones. He should probably just shut up and get back to work, but annoying Malfoy is too fun, and strangely enough, Harry needs to find an answer — even if it's the wrong kind.

"Sherbet lemons?"

Nothing.

"Yeah, they're not that great. How about Fizzing Whizzbees? They're my favourite."

Malfoy's knuckles are stark white, and that muscle throbs and twitches. Harry wants to touch it.

"Or cauldron cakes?"

Harry swears he hears Malfoy's teeth grind, and if he were anyone else he would stop now. But of course he doesn't.

"Although, sugar quills are —"

Harry will think about it later, how Malfoy moved so fast he was nothing — a blur, or that stuttered second between one heart beat and the next. But right now, Harry only has time to register that one moment he's in his own chair, and then suddenly he's up, his back flat on the table, with Malfoy leaning over him, one leg between Harry's.

And his eyes — his eyes are dark and wild and _furious._

* * *

Draco snaps — he can't help it, his blood just boils and he explodes, because Potter won't shut up, and Draco can't figure him out. All he knows is that Potter is infuriating and rubbish at essays and so fucking hot, all spread out on the table below him like that —

Draco blinks, takes a jarring breath, not knowing when and how they got like this. He should move, should jump backwards and never talk to Potter — no, never even _look_ at him again. But instead he's frozen, his leg just inches away from the warmth of Potter's crotch, with one hand fisted in Potter's jumper, while the other is planted firmly on the table beside his head.

Potter's eyes aren't scared — in fact they hold nothing but a challenge, a _dare_ nearly, and Draco covers the shock of it with anger, slamming his fist down hard on the wooden table surface.

But Potter doesn't cringe, he doesn't even twitch, not even when Draco growls — he simply stares, the bright green beneath his glasses making Draco squirm.

This isn't how it should go. People should run, scared of him — they should be disgusted by him, just like his own mother. But Potter doesn't know, nor will he ever, and that's why Draco swears they can never do anything but fight and argue, even if Potter's sick of it. _They can never change._

So Draco resists — he steps away from Potter, and leaves him lying confused and dishevelled on a mess of parchment and ink. He grabs his bag, shoves his things into it, trying to ignore the frustration ebbing in his chest, and the way Potter drags in a stuttered breath and says, "Malfoy." The way his voice wavers and croaks. The way he's suddenly everything Draco's ever wanted and more.

Draco steps away, rushes from the library. He escapes the temptation of Harry Potter — and it's not cowardice, he tells himself — it's _survival_.

Because he has to do this.

 _They can never change._

Then why, five hours later, when Draco is safely ensconced within an empty classroom, completing an essay that would have been impossible in the company of a bespectacled, mop haired git, does a large snowy owl scratch at the window, and upon its fluttering entrance deliver into Draco's hand a note which reads messily;

 _'same time tomorrow?_

 _H.'_

Why does it make Draco so terribly scared, yet excited to the point that his heart hurts?

And why, above all else Draco's ever known, does he know he'll give in?


End file.
